Falls the Shadow
by Amari Bell
Summary: Alex is sent to retrieve a computer virus from a juvenile prison, but nothing is as it seems. Between the idea and the reality, between the emotion and the response, between the words and the truth...
1. Chapter 1

"Jack," Alex Rider said slowly, staring down into his bowl, "What is that?"

Jack Starbright, a young red-haired woman and Alex's best friend for too many years to count, beamed and rattled off something in an Asian language—Vietnamese, Alex assumed, though neither he nor his guardian spoke the language fluently. Either Jack had simply invented a string of nonsense syllables or, more likely, she had taken breaks in preparing dinner to pore intensely over an English-Vietnamese phrasebook.

With trepidation, Alex returned his gaze to the contents of his bowl. There were fresh green cucumber slices, a sprig of mint, and pale slimy strips that Alex could only assume were jellyfish tentacles.

Jack smiled and passed Alex a set of chopsticks. "Bữa ăn tối được phục vụ—Ăn nào!" she announced brightly, which presumably meant, "enjoy your dinner" or "you've done something to really piss me off." The jellyfish in the salad was not nearly as big, nor as purplish tinted as the Portuguese Man-of-War that had nearly killed Alex in a giant fish tank the previous year, but it's appearance was equally ominous.

"Jack," he said carefully, "you shouldn't have."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Jack assured him, lifting a cucumber to her lips. "It's been ages since we tried something new. It's healthy, too."

She inflected the words with deliberate carelessness; Alex stared into his jellyfish salad with a familiar pang of guilt, a pain that always seemed to throb at the bullet-shaped scar beside his heart. Ever since the sniper attack, Jack had taken to casting fast, furtive glances in Alex's direction whenever he so much as winced, and her preoccupation with heart-healthy food was compulsive almost to the point of obsession. Alex remembered from primary school that jellyfish had little nutritional value—they were, after all, composed mostly of water—but he also remembered that the flesh of certain cannonball jellyfish had been proven to lower risk of heart disease.

Alex doubted he would live long enough to worry about heart attacks. Jack, apparently, disagreed.

"Come on," she pressed impatiently, when Alex continued to pick at the cucumbers. "You're supposed to be a spy, aren't you? You should be thrilled at the chance to try something new! What if you have to go undercover as a Japanese—"

"Vietnamese," Alex corrected, deadpan.

"—Jellyfish connoisseur one day?" Jack plunged on, folding her arms.

"You think I'd pass for Vietnamese?" Alex said, studying his own reflection on the polished tabletop. "I could stand to be a little shorter—"

"You love sushi, Alex. How is jellyfish any different?"

Alex had not told Jack about the incident in Herod Sayle's tank, nor did he want to admit that the close call had caused any psychological change in him whatsoever. This was one tight spot he couldn't work his way out of. Resisting the urge to sigh, he lifted a pale, slimy chunk of tentacle with his chopsticks and tried to imagine that it was, in fact, sushi, a harmless delicacy that would not sting his throat as it slithered down.

Then the telephone rang.

"I'll get it!" Alex volunteered, dropping his chopsticks and shooting from the table before Jack could so much as blink.

"Stupid telemarketers!" Jack fumed, while Alex reached for the phone. "And during dinner, too—"

"Hello?" Alex said, overwhelmingly grateful toward whoever was on the other end.

"I need to speak with an A. Rider."

The male voice was clipped and cold, with the dryness of a major banking company and the edge of a professional bearer of bad news. Immediately, Alex's smile evaporated. He sighed, trying to ignore the mixed rush of dread and adrenaline. "Speaking."

"Rider? Alex Rider?"

The man sounded surprised to hear a teenager's voice. Alex smiled grimly. "You must be new."

Whoever the man was, he recovered quickly. "Mr. Rider, your presence is requested at the Royal and General Bank in London, as soon as physically possible."

"Can I respectfully decline?" Alex said flatly.

"You have been advised not to."

Over the dark marble and the mint-green salads, Alex met Jack's eyes. She smiled sadly and turned away; she had heard a similar note in Alex's voice before, and she knew that in a month's time, Alex would be returning home with a hollowness in his serious brown eyes and a few new scars, emotional and physical, to add to his collection.

But the man on the phone had another bullet in the chamber. "I've also been instructed to request the presence of a Miss Jacqueline Starbright, of the same residence," he said. "A car has been sent for both of you."

Alex was so thrown by the use of Jack's full name, long and foreign and fragile-sounding, that it took him a moment to connect the dots between the words and the meaning. When he did, however, his heart jumped into double-time. "Jack? What the hell do you want her for?"

Across the table, Jack turned sharply back toward Alex, her eyes wide.

"A car will be sent for both of you," the man repeated, his voice turning sharper. "Our organization does not have time for childish games."

"Who's playing games?"

"Mr. Rider—"

"I'm only confused," Alex said calmly, "because Jack's not here."

A dead beat.

"I'm sorry?" the man asked.

"Jack's on holiday."

Alex had no qualms about lying, and he did so very smoothly. Across the kitchen, Jack was mouthing and gesticulating frantically, desperate for some indication of what the man was saying—Alex shook his head slightly and pressed a finger to his lips. He didn't care what the new mission was. They wouldn't have Jack.

"Mr. Rider," the man said, with a serrated edge, "I'm having trouble understanding you."

"Here's an idea," Alex said, his temper flaring. "Maybe you would hear me better if you'd pull the phone out of your—"

"Enough, Mr. Rider."

And, indeed, the last shred of the man's patience had evaporated. The line crackled with impatience, and annoyance, and a desire to forget this irksome phone call like the desk drone had done with so many others.

Still, Alex took one last stab at persuasion. "I'm telling you, Jack left a few weeks ago, and I don't know when she'll be—"

"You've got a great deal still to learn." The voice was bored. It had already forgotten that Alex existed. It had forgotten him five minutes ago. "When the car arrives at Royal and General, I suggest that both yourself and Miss Starbright be inside it."

"I'm _telling_ you—"

But the voice wasn't finished. "One more thing, Mr. Rider. Tell Miss Starbright to bring some of that delectable looking salad. Waste not."

And a solid click told Alex that the conversation was closed.

Alex and Jack sat on the cold leather backseat of an ash-gray sedan, with tinted glass sealing them away from the driver and the rest of the world. Jack stared out at the rainy street, her face pale and determined. Alex had tried, for the first few minutes, to make conversation, but Jack had only nodded mutely in response, and after awhile he decided that her approach was better. There was really nothing he could say that Jack didn't already know.

When they reached the bank, Alex held the door for Jack and then headed straight for the lifts. Jack, however, stood for a moment in the center of the lobby, struggling to comprehend the vastness of the bank tellers' silver nameplates and the little boxes of paperclips. She hadn't visited the bank since Ian Rider's death—now that she knew about MI6, a whole parallel world had unfolded. What government secrets lurked beneath the parquet floors and the combination vaults? What was the real occupation of the teller with the slight paunch and the argyle sweater vest? What classified data was the woman at receptions reading as her cold eyes scrolled listlessly down the computer screen, again and again?

"Jack." Alex caught his guardian by the elbow. "Come on."

Jack nodded quickly and followed him toward the lifts. She missed the old days when a teenager was a teenager, a bank was a bank, and a part-time baby-sitting job was the farthest thing from a permanent stamp on the rest of her life.

As the lift rose, Jack leaned against the wall and resisted the compulsive urge to stab the emergency button. Alex would've stopped her, anyway. On the seventh floor, the doors slid open, and Alex led the way down a blank gray corridor. Too soon, he and Jack were standing in front of the office with "Alan Blunt" in block letters on the silver nameplate.

Jack stared at the doorknob. "What do they want with me?"

Alex didn't speak. He couldn't.

MI6 was going to yank Jack's Visa and send her back to America, and Alex knew that, no matter how appropriately indignant Jack might act, she would seize hold of deportation like a lifeline in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. The woman had signed on to watch over a five-year-old boy, part-time. Now she was the single caretaker of a teenage superspy—and she was constantly haunted by the shadow of the police officers who had informed her that Ian Rider was dead, and whose echoes would deliver the same bad news about Alex some day. Who could blame her for wanting out?

Alex couldn't speak, because he knew the answer.

Jack seemed to be thinking along the same lines. She turned toward Alex, her green eyes more solemn than he had ever seen them.

"Alex," she said quietly, "Look at me."

He already had been, but he appreciated her attempt at emphasis. "It's okay, Jack."

"No," Jack said, suddenly bold. "None of this is okay."

Alex shrugged. "We've both known that for awhile."

Jack shook her head, her eyes a little too bright, and Alex prayed, rather selfishly, that she wouldn't cry. In ten years, the only time he had seen Jack really cry had been after Ian Rider's funeral. Alex didn't think he could handle the knowledge that the situation he had put her in was nearly as painful as Ian Rider's death.

Jack breathed shakily and formed a steeple with both hands, pressing her fingertips against her closed eyelids. When she spoke, however, it was in carefully measured tones.

"I know I complain. Sometimes I complain more than I should. But the only reason I hate your—job—so much is because of how much I—" She took a deep, shaky breath and opened her eyes. "You're my best friend, Alex. I'm sorry it had to turn out this way."

Alex grinned ruefully. "Me too. And I'm sorry we left the jellyfish salad on the table."

"Oh my God!" Jack's hand flew to her mouth. "We did, didn't we? The jellyfish, the cucumbers—"

"And the sprig of mint," Alex said helpfully.

Jack's lip twitched. "We might not be home for weeks, or even months."

"It'll be a biohazard," Alex said solemnly. "A culture of jellyfish-eating bacteria. Or parasites. Or deadly parasitic bacteria."

Jack snorted helplessly. "You know what? Maybe we can trick the MI6 people into going inside."

Alex laughed, his first genuine laughter anywhere on the premises of the MI6 headquarters; Jack, meanwhile, was giggling so desperately that she couldn't breathe. Alex loved her for her contradictions—the cynical optimism, the sullen humor. At the same time, however, he felt a flicker of guilt. He had led her none-too-subtly into sarcasm, because he couldn't stand to hear her lie for his sake.

Finally, Jack's breathless laughter died away. She wiped away a tear.

"Oh my God. We really did leave the jellyfish out. And I'll never be back to put it right."

Alex reached for the doorknob of Alan Blunt's office.

"Wait! Shouldn't we knock f—"

Before Jack could finish her sentence, before Alex's hand even touched the silver, the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Jones standing stiffly in the doorway, her hair dark and her eyes even darker. As always, she slipped a peppermint into her mouth.

"You should bring enough of those for everyone," Alex remarked.

She ignored him.

Alex stepped into the office, Jack closely behind him, as though afraid that if she fell behind more than a step she would get lost in the bare floor and the heavy silence. Alan Blunt, seated behind his sweeping mahogany desk, looked older, grayer, and more lifeless than Alex remembered. Despite the fact that he was the one who had summoned Alex, the man appeared deeply engrossed in a file of documents.

The silence was endless. No one spoke.

"Well," Alex said at last, stepping back toward the door. "I'm glad we've had this little chat, but—"

"Sit down, Alex."

Blunt sounded tired. It was more emotion than Alex had ever heard from him, and it was for this reason only that Alex closed his mouth and dropped into one of the old armchairs in front of the desk. Jack sat next to him. Blunt rifled through the papers for a few more minutes; then, finally, he looked through his spectacles at Alex as though seeing him there for the first time.

"Alex, welcome back. Have you enjoyed your holiday?"

Alex pretended to think. "Oh. You mean my full month of not being beaten, drowned, or dissected? Yeah, it's been grand."

Mrs. Jones's expression flickered with something like pity; she worked her peppermint viciously, and the weakness disappeared as quickly as it had come. "You look well, Alex. I'm glad. We need your help again."

Alex felt Jack move restlessly beside him. He watched as Blunt pushed a folder across the desktop.

"Have a look."

Alex opened the folder, sliding out a glossy black-and-white photograph of a craggy shore and a concrete building with small barred windows. "What's this?"

"A maximum-security juvenile prison," Mrs. Jones said.

Alex stared at the picture for a minute. Then he looked up.

"You're sending me to juvie?"

"In the crudest sense, yes."

Alex smiled ironically. "I've already been. According to my year-mates, anyway."

Mrs. Jones's lip twitched. Blunt, however, didn't blink.

"You're looking at a surveillance photo of Stony Creek Center for Troubled Youth. The name's a misnomer—these teenagers are more trouble than troubled. The prison is a last resort for anyone whose crime was too serious and behavior too dangerous to allow for extended incarceration in an ordinary detention center. And we need an agent to go in."

"Send someone else," Alex said, but without any real conviction.

Blunt shook his head. "You're the only man—boy—for the job," he said.

"Thanks," Alex said bitterly.

Blunt frowned. "Whoever goes into Stony Creek will have to investigate a specific target—an incarcerated youth. Another, older agent would be limited to the undercover role of guard, or officer. Limited access, as I'm sure you've gathered. But seeing as you're fourteen—"

"Fifteen," Alex corrected flatly. "Thanks for the birthday card.

"—You'll be able to blend in with the other inmates."

"There's no danger involved," Mrs. Jones added.

"Except, you know, a bunch of murderers and crooks," Alex shrugged.

"You'll only have to get the information and get out," Mrs. Jones pressed. "No one at the prison will suspect a new inmate—they'd never dream that we would go so far as to employ a teenage spy."

"And maybe that should tell you something," Jack mumbled.

Alex studied the photograph. Tall razor-wire fences. Two watchtowers that loomed over the harsh landscape. It was hardly a five-star resort. The shore looked craggy and the waves treacherous; moreover, there was something ominous about the steady curve of the shoreline. Alex looked up curiously.

"Is this an island?"

"Yes," Mrs. Jones said, smiling slightly. "A few miles offshore from Grimsby."

Alex nodded slowly, studying the picture in greater detail.

"It's a children's Alcatraz," Jack said, sounding horrified.

Blunt rubbed his eyes. "I'd be much obliged if you would not talk, Miss Starbright. This morning I awoke to a screeching catfight outside my window, and I'd prefer to avoid that frequency for the rest of the day."

Jack blinked. "You asshole."

"I'm sorry?" Blunt said, without an ounce of inflection.

"You're an asshole," Jack repeated clearly, her voice rising. "You're a cold, conscienceless drone. You're sending Alex into prison, and yet you're concentrating more on stupid, smug insults than on the _child _whose life you're destroying! I can't even look at you—such a sick, sad, inhuman—"

"Miss Starbright, I understand your position," Mrs. Jones said delicately.

"You can go to hell. Alex is too young."

"The perfect cover," Blunt agreed, emotionless.

"No!" Jack shouted, pounding her fists on the table. "You can't keep doing this! You're just going to keep blackmailing him into mission after mission after mission, wearing him down to nothing, until the mission he doesn't come back from." She took a deep breath. "You can do whatever you want with me. You can take away my Visa and kick me out of the country. You can have the house—you can have everything I've ever owned—you can threaten me until you're blue in the face. But you won't have Alex."

"Miss Starbright—" Mrs. Jones looked rather lost, having accidentally swallowed her peppermint during Jack's tirade. "I have to ask you to step outside. Just for a few minutes."

"No!" Jack shrieked again, with pure frustration. "God! One day, you people will have to deal with a very long fall from grace." She stood up, trembling with the fear and fury that had battled inside her ever since she set foot in the Royal and General. "Alex, we're leaving. Now."

Mrs. Jones dug in her pocket for a fresh peppermint, her hand shaking. She fumbled with the wrapper. Blunt, however, looked supremely unconcerned. He stared straight at Alex. "You're wondering what's in that prison that's so important."

Alex looked coolly back at him.

"Alex, tell them," Jack said, her head pounding with furious conviction. "We're leaving. I was wrong earlier—everything will be okay."

She fully expected Alex to agree with her. Why wouldn't he? She was his guardian, and he trusted her a million times more than anyone else, and MI6 had done nothing but make his life miserable—and nearly end it.

Alex took a deep breath. "Jack—"

He hesitated.

"Just a few minutes, alright?"

Jack felt as though a fifty-pound weight had just hit her in the face. She blinked quickly. "Right. You're right, Alex. You handle this alone."

She backed out into the hallway, trying not to show how hurt she was. The look in Alex's eye was one that she had never seen there before Ian Rider's death, and one that had started to inhabit the boy's serious brown gaze more and more frequently—and it scared her.

Alex looked away, and Mrs. Jones closed the office door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, all! :D This is my first fanfic, and it's been loads of fun so far. Thanks to Nylah for teaching me where to find this nifty editing tool. Heh.  
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**I had a slight setback last weekend when my hard drive died and took with it the five chapters I had written (and all of my notes for final exams) so now it's back to square one.**** I'll update as regularly as I can. Reviews might help. :)  
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**Disclaimer: Well, my dad's middle name is Anthony. Does that count for anything? Eh, it was worth a try. **

"You've been having our house watched," Alex accused immediately, as soon as the door closed.

Blunt raised an eyebrow. "Why would you think that, Alex?"

He and Mrs. Jones had returned to their seats on the far side of the desk, their postures identically stiff. Alex, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the armchair, trying to keep his face calm and comparatively expressionless.

"The man on the phone was looking right into our kitchen. He made some obnoxious remark about our jellyfish salad." Alex paused, feeling slightly defensive for some reason. "Incidentally, Jack's cooking is usually quite good."

Blunt nodded. "Quite. The chicken parmesan last night looked particularly promising."

"So you admit you've been having us watched," Alex snapped.

"That is correct, Alex. We keep tabs on all our agents, and frankly, the fact that you thought otherwise is a testament to how childish you are yet."

Alex rubbed his forehead. "I don't—"

"We have surveillance on all our top agents," Mrs. Jones cut in, a bit more kindly. "It's not intended as an invasion of privacy, but rather as an insurance policy. We have to make sure that you'll be alive and in top form whenever we need you to contact you again."

"Right," Alex said, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers on the dark, polished desktop. "I wouldn't want to compromise the mission by being dead."

Blunt's already-thin mouth pressed into an even tighter line. "We know you're very clever, Alex, but the mutinous-teenage-sarcasm shtick has gotten old. Wouldn't you agree?"

Alex shrugged, looking elsewhere.

Mrs. Jones had popped another peppermint into her mouth and looked quite calm again. She pushed the file back across the table toward Alex and removed a black-and-white mug shot of a teenage boy. "This is your target, Devon Bartoy."

Alex studied the photograph closely, absorbing every detail, like a camera zooming close into an actor's face. Alex would estimate that Devon was a few years older than he was, and about the same height, if the markings in the backdrop of the mug shot were correct. The boy's milk-pale skin begged for a flicker of sunlight. His gaunt, hollow cheeks and dark hair recalled the Dracula films of the 1930s, or perhaps something Burton-esque—Johnny Depp in Sleepy Hollow, for example, but a younger, slightly nerdier version. Devon's eyes, however, were cool and logical.

"Devon Bartoy, aged seventeen, the only son of Anton Bartoy, a computer technician and hypertext genius," Blunt droned, with a learned-by-heart dullness. "Anton Bartoy moved to England from Romania, and then from England to France, when he received a job at CERN, the European—"

"—Organization for Nuclear Research," Alex intoned.

Blunt looked at him. "Right. Bartoy worked at CERN for years, and in '88 he came close to a major breakthrough—a hypertext system that would connect the world through an Internet medium. A web, so to speak."

"Hang on," Alex said slowly. "Anton Bartoy didn't invent the World Wide Web."

"That's correct, Alex," Mrs. Jones said, with the same slight smile from earlier. "The World Wide Web is credited to Tim Berners-Lee and Robert Cailliau. In 1989, they made the first proposal for a hypertext system."

"And Bartoy was okay with that?" Alex said dubiously.

"He didn't know about it. A few months earlier, the authorities at CERN found him channeling funds into side projects, most of which were—less than ethical. Viruses. Malware. The man had the means to destroy or infiltrate any computer system, before the World Wide Web had even been created."

"He was sacked?"

"On the spot."

Alex nodded grimly. "And the others stole his research."

"It's our working theory." Mrs. Jones leaned forward, her dark eyes serious. "After he was dropped from CERN, Bartoy couldn't find a computer or technical position that would take him, and his wife left a few years later. And Bartoy just went mad for revenge. He's been working for years to develop a computer virus with the potential to devastate every system on earth—and all technology connected with it. The stock market, hospital electronics, digital clocks, national databases—essentially, any and all stored information."

Alex wet his lips. He couldn't imagine the technologically dependent world surviving another Dark Age. Everything would crumble.

"What's the current status of the virus?" he asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"Engineered and fully operational," Mrs. Jones admitted. "But it hasn't touched a computer system yet. Three months ago, when the project was wrapping up, Bartoy's assistant deserted and brought the information to us. He must have realized the magnitude of his actions."

"Or that betrayal would pay better," Alex mumbled.

Mrs. Jones ground her teeth into the peppermint. "Perhaps."

Alex sighed. "What happened next?"

"Bartoy's underground warehouse was deserted by the time we got there, but we tracked him to a village in the south of France. He surrendered quietly." She glanced quickly at Blunt, who pretended not to notice. "Unfortunately, he doesn't have the virus, and he won't tell us where he hid it."

She had ground her peppermint into nothing, mint dust between her molars; she reached into her pocket for another, like a heroin addict rushing for a fix, hands trembling on the needle. Alex watched for a few minutes.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "Maybe I missed something. But I don't see how any of this has to do with a juvenile prison."

Blunt, who had been rifling through documents, spoke up again—perhaps taking pity on Mrs. Jones's frantic peppermint search, or perhaps starved to hear his own voice. "A week before our agents caught up with Anton Bartoy, his son Devon was arrested on the streets of London. He beat an old man within an inch of his life. Devon pled guilty, without a shred of remorse, and was sentenced to five years at Stony Creek Center for Troubled Youths."

Alex understood immediately. "You think that Bartoy gave the virus—the flash drive, or whatever—to Devon for safekeeping."

Blunt nodded curtly; Mrs. Jones, who had stopped fidgeting as soon as the peppermint landed on her tongue, opened her mouth to speak, but she stopped when all three heard a muffled thud from next door.

"Chalmers is on holiday," Mrs. Jones murmured perplexedly, tilting her head.

"You think Devon has the flash drive?" Alex prompted.

Mrs. Jones regarded Alex thoughtfully. "What do you think?"

Alex shrugged, surprised at being asked to conjecture for himself. "I don't know. I guess—Bartoy must've given Devon the flash drive and told him to keep it safe by any means necessary. And Stony Creek is, obviously, a secure facility."

He looked up at Mrs. Jones and Blunt, who had just exchanged a significant glance.

"Why don't you just send someone in to search the prison? This is government business. It's serious. Surely you have clearance." There was a slight mocking note in his tone, and he knew they heard it.

Blunt's mouth tightened ever so slightly, and Mrs. Jones scraped the peppermint against her teeth again.

"Alex," she said, "I know you're very much in the dark about the inner workings of MI6, and I'd like to keep it that way—for your sake. But I'll say this. Government officials were not impressed with our handling of the Anton Bartoy situation. Good instructions were given, but the lower personnel—they made a few mistakes—and—"

"And—" Alex pressed.

Blunt leaned back, with a supreme lack of concern. "MI6 has been banned from sending an agent into Stony Creek. We're not to get our people involved, and any attempt to do otherwise will land us in—serious complications."

"Then what the hell am I doing here?" Alex snapped, half-rising.

"You, Alex, are not a registered agent."

Alex dropped sharply back into his chair. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"I won't be your insurance policy," he said.

"Alex," Mrs. Jones said, with a soft note of urgency, "this is the most crucial mission we've ever asked you to undertake. Think of the whole world plunged into darkness."

Alex rubbed his forehead wearily. What was he supposed to do? Already, the thrill of the new mission had infected his blood, pumping into his heart, and he found himself subconsciously running through a list of possible hiding spots for a flash drive, analyzing Devon's weaknesses, and trying to gauge how long the task would take. But if something went wrong behind bars, he knew MI6 would do nothing to help him. They couldn't admit to being affiliated with him—they would be forced to quite literally leave him to die.

"You know, Alex," Mrs. Jones added, in an off-hand sort of way, "you've demonstrated a great aptitude for this kind of work. Outstanding physical ability, a natural grace under pressure, logical thinking—if you perform well on this next mission, we might be inclined to give you agent status."

Alex stared at her. "You're not serious."

"You should know the answer to that."

"What makes you think I'd want to be an agent?"

Alan Blunt actually smiled—it made a grotesque change in him, a stretching of the sallow skin around his mouth that was very unaccustomed to movement. The worst thing, Alex decided, was that even when Blunt made his mouth smile, he showed no emotion whatsoever.

"Alex, you've reached the point, I think, when it would be morally acceptable for you to stop pretending. You've undertaken every mission we've asked of you, and I daresay you've made your reluctance quite clear. But you keep coming back. Would you care to explain why?"

"I don't have a choice," Alex snapped.

Blunt's smile faded. "You can't escape what's in your blood, Alex. None of us can."

Alex avoided Blunt's gaze and looked down at the desktop for a long moment. He had been blackmailed into these missions, but Blunt was right. It was becoming hypocritical to reduce them to a one-time (or two-time, or three-time, or five-time) experience. Perhaps he had always known that.

On the other hand, it was deliciously tempting to slam the door in Blunt's face and return to his safe life. Safe, but _boring. _Playing football, riding bikes with Tom. Taking notes in lessons and studying for exams. Talking about ordinary things with ordinary people, and wondering when and where and how the next madman would try to destroy up the world.

"Would I get paid?" Alex asked finally.

Blunt looked blandly at him. "We do typically pay our agents, Alex."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Blunt regarded him closely, with something like approval. "You would be paid," he said. "And—compensated."

Life and injury insurance, Alex figured. He smiled wryly. MI6 had blackmailed him plenty, but this was the first time they had tried bribery.

There was another thud from next door; Mrs. Jones looked sharply at the wall again, but Alex pretended not to have heard it. He cleared his throat.

"Right," Mrs. Jones said abruptly. "What do you say, Alex?"

He hesitated. "I want some guarantee of back-up before I agree to go in."

Blunt raised an eyebrow. "If you feel such a strong need for someone to protect you, Alex, perhaps you're not fit for agent status after all. Perhaps you're too—childish."

Alex shrugged.

Blunt considered for a long moment, his face characteristically blank. When he spoke, it was with heavy reluctance. "The most we can do is to enlist someone from an outside organization—the SAS, perhaps—to go undercover. He would assist you only in the direst of circumstances. If you make a mistake that compromises the mission—"

"I won't," Alex snapped.

_Shit._

His words had been as good as an agreement. He was going.

Blunt continued, trying not to look too smug. "—You will be expected to deny any connection with MI6, and though the undercover SAS will help you if he can, the responsibility will be your own."

Alex thought back to his brief training course at Brecon Beacons. There, in his only experience with a multitude of SAS members, the K Unit and their leader, Wolf, had taken it as a personal challenge to make Alex's stay as miserable as possible. But the odds of Wolf being chosen for this mission were slim, and Alex knew that the SAS were probably the most well-trained and reliable help that he could hope for.

"Okay," he said finally.

Mrs. Jones smiled, and Blunt leaned back in his chair.

"Good. Now, the most important thing for you to remember—"

But what was most important, Alex never found out; a shrill scream split the air, and he, Mrs. Jones, and Blunt all shot to their feet

"What was that?" Alex demanded.

"ALEX!" a woman shrieked, from just outside the door.

Alex sprinted out into the hallway. Jack was being dragged out of the neighboring office by two guards, tall, muscular, and stony-faced. Each held one of her arms—she was kicking and struggling desperately as they pulled her along.

"Get OFF me!" she shouted.

Immediately, Alex sprang into action. Never mind that these men were only doing their job, and never mind that Jack had been eavesdropping from the next-door office (which he knew she had). His instinct was to protect her.

He pulled the first guard around, and before the man understood that he was being attacked, Alex jabbed him in the throat and followed up with two fast punches. The man reeled away, choking, both hands at his throat. The next guard was more prepared; Alex tried to make the first hit, but the man dodged sideways and caught Alex by the shirt, a classic grab-and-strike. His punch was fast; Alex's block was faster. He caught the guard's arm with his left hand and chopped the guard's neck with his right. The guard staggered; Alex rammed a knee into his stomach and dropped him with an elbow to the back.

"Stand down!" Mrs. Jones shouted from the doorway.

At first, Alex thought she was talking to him. Then someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, his toes barely dragging the ground. Helpless, cursing his own inattentiveness, Alex let his muscles go limp—and then, without warning, he stomped on the guard's foot and drove his elbow just below the guard's ribcage. The guard grunted in pain, and Alex tore himself free.

But the first guard had recovered. Finally—this was more what Alex was used to, not necessarily launching an attack but defending against one. The guard shot a punch at Alex's head; Alex blocked it and followed up with a fast sidekick. The guard caught his foot, but Alex had enough balance to make this work in his advantage, and in the split second while both the guard's hands were occupied, Alex struck him twice and put him on the ground, doubled over.

"Stand down!" Mrs. Jones commanded again, but not with any real conviction.

"Alex!" Jack screamed suddenly.

Alex knew, by something in Jack's voice, that he had overlooked something—but before he could do anything about it, a vicious blow connected with his kidneys. A fourth guard had joined the fray. Pain gripped across Alex's lower back—he turned to confront the new attacker, but he turned too slowly—a fist slammed into his jaw, and somehow Alex's feet weren't supporting him anymore, and then he was hitting the ground, hard.

"Alex!" Jack shouted again, sounding like she was about to cry.

Alex looked up. His head was spinning, but he knew clearly that he lay at the feet of four trained guards, and that in a few minutes their heavy boots would come down on him. He rolled away, expecting kicks, expecting bruises and broken ribs—

"Stand down," Mrs. Jones said again, more calmly this time.

And, to Alex's surprised relief, they did. He had grown so accustomed to fighting criminals and thugs and desperate people—the bad guys, in other words—that he had forgotten that some people only wanted to do their job, not beat him to a pulp. He got up slowly, the pain gradually fading.

Blunt and Jones stood near the office doorway. Three of the guards had grouped together, looking baffled to have met their match in a teenager; the fourth guard, a tall, muscular man with short blonde hair, stood apart with his arms folded.

"Alex," Blunt said, with unbearable smugness, "was that little display really necessary?"

Alex couldn't think of how to respond, and he was still trying to get his breath back, anyway. The blonde guard, who had been the one to knock Alex to the ground, spoke up.

"Can we go?"

Blunt frowned slightly. "All but you, Walkman. You're to escort Miss Starbright to her room."

"My room?" Jack said, staring at Blunt as though he'd sprouted another, expressionless head. "What are you talking about?"

"You'll be spending some time here at headquarters," Blunt said simply.

"Like hell I will."

"Miss Starbright," Mrs. Jones added gently, "this is for your own safety. Your home has become a target."

Walkman took Jack by the upper-arm, but she squirmed away and glared at Blunt. "What the hell is going on? Answer me, you gray old prune!"

Alex resisted the urge to laugh; Mrs. Jones glanced sharply at him, and he tried to control himself.

Blunt considered Jack closely. 'Miss Starbright, I'll be blunt." (Alex and Jack carefully avoided one another's eyes). "You have no right to demand answers of anyone, especially after you've been caught eavesdropping on a top-secret briefing. In most cases, this would qualify as a criminal offense."

"A criminal offense?" Alex echoed, moving instinctively closer to Jack. "How much can you blame her for opening an unlocked door and accidentally overhearing something?"

"No more than we can blame you for jumping out a sixth story window and breaking into an office from a flagpole," Blunt snapped.

"You're right," Alex agreed solemnly. "You really need to work on your security."

The guards muttered darkly, and Alex realized too late that his comment must have offended them, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He turned to Mrs. Jones.

"What did you mean, our home has become a target?"

Mrs. Jones looked from Alex to Jack and sighed. "Over the past week, Alex has been subject to three assassination attempts."

"What?" Jack gasped.

"I haven't—" Alex began.

"The first was a sniper, the second an attempted bombing, the third an assailant waiting around the corner as Alex biked home."

Alex couldn't believe her. Blunt, meanwhile, was looking closely at Jack. "What do you know about this, Miss Starbright?"

"I—well, I was away on holiday the week before last. I won a radio contest." And it seemed surreal that she had moved so fast from sandy beaches and boardwalk shopping to the gray, airless corridors of the MI6 headquarters. "But I've been home for the past week, and I haven't noticed any wrong."

Mrs. Jones sighed. "That is because each attack was neutralized before it could be carried out. We've had guards standing by, twenty four hours a day."

Alex stared at her. He knew Mrs. Jones was telling the truth, but he hadn't noticed any attacks, hadn't taken any measures to defend himself or protect Jack. A week ago, when he had been sitting at his desk finishing his math homework, had a sniper been leveling the crosshairs through his bedroom window? Last night, while he and Jack tucked into a quiet dinner, had a team of assassins been planting a bomb on the opposite side of the wall?

"It's okay, Alex," Jack said, sensing his self-disappointment.

Alex shook his head. "It's not."

And now that he had decided to work for MI6, he knew it never would be

**So...what did you think? Decent? Horrible? Any feedback, good or bad, will be greatly appreciated! And thanks to all of you who took the time to review last time! :)**

**Nylah**. Thanks so much! I was so excited to read your review (my first one, yay!), and I'm glad to hear that the characterizations work. That was one of my major fears, because I've only read 3 of the books in the series so far. Haha the jellyfish…I thought Alex would love that. ;) Thanks again!

**Jusmine**. Thanks so much! Don't sell yourself short, though. I love your story as well! Yeah, the peppermint…I'm fascinated by Mrs. Jones's addiction, as you can probably tell. O:) Hope you enjoyed this chapter too!

**kitt t catte**. Haha, the intrigue…hopefully it will live up to your expectations. Thanks for taking the time to review! And I promise Alex will get to the prison very soon…I just needed another chapter of exposition to make the story work later.

**reading-rider. ** Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it! I was worried about the characterizations, but you've put my mind at ease. :) Heh…the H stories…well, they really show how drastically my writing has changed in 5 years…lol. Maybe one day I'll work up the nerve to post a few of them.

**tennischik09. ** Thanks so much for reviewing! I'm glad it seems fresh, and I'll try my best to keep it that way. Hehe yeah, I do love Jack, but I imagine her voice as slightly…less than tranquil. I hope you liked this chapter!

**SkyRider**. Thanks so much! I hope this chapter worked pretty well, too. I'll update as soon as I can! :)

**Emmy-Loo.** Thank you so much for such a thoughtful review! I'm glad Jack put a new spin on the visit to headquarters…I'm really interested in her character, so she'll probably be sticking around in some of the future chapters. And I'm really not heartless, but I'm so glad you mentioned you went from laughing to feeling depressed—it means the writing accomplished something. :) Thanks for your input! Definitely let me know if Alex starts to seem whiny or too angsty. I'll do my best to keep away from overdoing it.


	3. Chapter 3

**New chapter, yay! Please review when you're done! Also, I meant to mention this earlier...I took the title from T. S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." And I did resist the urge to quote the most-quoted lines in the history of poetry. :)**

Alex looked blankly out across the dark, choppy water. An island was just visible through the fog, with craggy rocks and razor-wire fences for a shoreline. He thought ironically of Ian Rider. The man had once told Alex that prisons were too "soft" and "cushy," and not nearly severe enough. Ian had spoken with the calm control that Alex had grown to expect from him—but he had punctuated his statement by shattering a dinner plate against the wall.

Alex wasn't sure what had prompted his uncle's uncharacteristic bitterness, but he hoped for his own sake that Ian had been right, and that prison would be a walk in a soft and cushy park.

A hand gripped Alex's shoulder painfully. "Time to board."

Alex shuffled toward the small green ferry that bobbed and lurched beside the dock. It was slow going; chains connected his ankles, and another set of handcuffs linked his wrists behind his back. The chains clanked heavily as the guard pushed him forward.

"Let's go, Holt."

With difficulty, Alex clambered onto the deck of the ferry, and he was shoved into a plastic chair. A tall, stocky man in a gray uniform dragged a fisherman's anchor across the deck and hooked the anchor chain to the chain between Alex's ankles.

"You weren't thinking of taking a swim, were you?" he asked, trying to read Alex's face.

Alex looked out across the waves and said nothing. The file had described Jacob Holt as quiet but confident, sullen but obedient—it was an easy role to play.

The handcuff around his left wrist scraped against another piece of metal—the gadget that Mr. Smithers had given him a few hours earlier. The meeting had gone quickly, but Alex kept replaying bits and pieces of it in his head. Smithers had given Alex a warm welcome, but something had felt strange about the brief encounter.

Alex had taken the lift down to the workshop where Smithers designed and assembled all of the gadgets for the field agents. Smithers himself, occupationally cheerful and rotund in the delightful manner of Father Christmas, had been waiting for Alex at a long rectangular table. Clearly he did much of his work there; the wooden surface was marred with long scratches and big black burn marks. Someone had tried to sweep over everything with a coat of varnish, but the cracks still showed.

Smithers beamed at Alex, his several chins jiggling. "M'boy, you've no idea how pleased I was to see your name on the register."

Alex frowned. "What register?"

"A list that tells me what agent is taking what mission, and when the gadgets must be finished," Smithers said breezily. "Bloody useful, in my experience—especially with your missions."

"When did my name appear on the register?"

"About a week ago, I'd wager."

Even now, with chains at his wrists and ankles, Alex didn't feel as trapped as he had in that moment. He hated the helplessness of being used like a pawn in someone's losing game. Blunt had pretended to ask Alex for help, but a week earlier, he had already known that Alex would agree.

This was the game of a man who didn't know how to lose.

But Smithers had seemed uncomfortable, so Alex had reluctantly changed the subject—"What have you got for me, Mr. Smithers?"

"Ah—actually, old chap, these past few days have been something of a brainteaser. The Stony Creek Center supplies inmates with everything they need. I could've done night-vision contact lenses or metal-corroding toothpaste, but you're not allowed that much. You're not even allowed coursework; I checked."

"No math homework? Damn."

"But I've been scouring the fine-print for exceptions."

Alex grinned. "And I'm sure you've enjoyed the challenge."

"Quite," Smithers agreed, grinning back. He reached into the pocket of his enormous trousers and removed a small box, upholstered with the black velvet that usually encloses women's diamond rings and pearl necklaces. Alex raised an eyebrow.

"It was the only proper-sized container I could find," Smithers said sheepishly. "And—here we are!"

He flipped open the jewelry box to reveal a metal charm bracelet. It had a flat silver tag and three charms, a sun, a cloud, and a little brontosaurus. Alex stared for a long moment.

"What do you think?" Smithers said hopefully.

"It's lovely, Mr. Smithers," Alex said. "But I'd rather we just remain friends."

Smithers laughed heartily, as Alex had known he would. "Ah, my dear boy, I knew you weren't quite as clever as they've been going on about. Fancy reading the tag?"

Alex sighed and lifted the metal bracelet. It glittered in the light, but more like a bicycle chain than a piece of jewelry. On the tag, in plain block script, were the words "Peanut Allergy."

"Oh," he said, feeling rather stupid.

"An allergy bracelet," Smithers said, nodding smartly. "Essentially the only personal item that prisoners are allowed to bring inside. There's a transmitter in the tag—press down on the left side to send a message, and press down on the right side to listen to your messages. It serves as a sort of—a voicemail system. I've made two duplicate bracelets, only without all the charms—one for myself, and one for you to give to Blunt."

He fished the duplicate bracelet out of his trouser pocket and handed it to Alex, who forced a smile. "Brilliant."

Smithers regarded him closely. "You know, I thought you'd be rather pleased. With this bracelet, you can send for help. You won't be alone."

Alex shrugged. "Even if I can message for help, Blunt won't send any."

Smithers coughed. "Ah—well, as I'm sure you've heard, Alex, the business with Anton Bartoy has been—well, it's been bad business indeed. A lot of governmental higher-ups are very displeased. But if you find yourself in a bad place, Blunt will send back-up."

"Really? Fifteen minutes ago, he made very clear that a good agent should work alone."

Smithers scratched his chin. "Well—you are something of an agent, Alex, but you're also a teenage boy. I shouldn't think that the usual protocol applies. You're not actually employed by MI6, are you?"

Alex shrugged again.

"Are you?" Smithers pressed.

"No. I don't know." Alex lowered his eyes under the pretense of examining the bracelet. "So—what does each of these charms do?"

"Oh!" Smithers bounced with unchecked excitement. "I'd almost forgotten! If you remove the cloud, it releases a chemical smoke bomb. Nasty stuff—try not to inhale any of it."

Alex nodded. "What about the sun?"

"Allow me to demonstrate." Smithers pressed down on the back of the metal sun, and the charm flared with such blinding white light that Alex had to shield his eyes. "I won't bore you with candlepower, but this little light has the same wattage as the bulbs in the Luxor searchlights, visible from outer space." Smithers grinned. "I've engineered this one for a slightly gentler glow, so you can use it to light up a room or a tunnel. Still, I'd recommend not staring straight at it. Could cause short-term damage to the retinas."

Alex tried not to smirk. "And—the dinosaur? A brontosaurus, by the looks of it?"

Smithers flushed. "Well—that one's just for authenticity's sake. I thought boys were supposed to like dinosaurs. And it's an apatosaurus—didn't your Uncle Ian teach you anything?"

Alex shook his head. "Strangely, Ian didn't think a spy would need an extensive knowledge of the Cretaceous Period."

"Quite a pity," Smithers said, shaking his head with mock-seriousness.

"Mr. Smithers." Alex fixed him with a stare. "What does the dinosaur do?"

Slowly, Smithers's face broke into a guilty grin. "You know me too well, Alex. The dinosaur is by far the most—ah—explosive. As soon as you detach the charm, it starts a silent ten-second countdown."

"Brilliant," Alex said, with real enthusiasm this time.

"Don't use it unless absolutely necessary, Alex."

"I won't," Alex said. "But—hang on. Why a dinosaur? Why not a—a mushroom, or a cartoon-style bomb, or something?"

Smithers flushed slightly. "Well—that is to say—when did boys stop liking dinosaurs?"

Alex shook his head, amused. "Search me."

He stepped out into the corridor and pressed the button for the lift, feeling slightly better now that he had some useful gadgets with him. Smithers trailed behind him nervously and cleared his throat.

"What?" Alex said, glancing back.

"You're not officially working for MI6, are you, old chap?"

"No." Alex hesitated. "Maybe. They've given me the option, and I figure—I mean, I'll end up doing these bloody missions anyway. Might as well get paid, right?"

Smithers's face turned unexpectedly grave.

"You don't want to get in too deep here, Alex. Don't touch any form of compensation. Don't sign anything. Just—just do your job and get out of this mess."

But then the lift doors had slid open, and Alex had stepped quietly inside. He knew Jack was waiting for him on underground level three, and he wanted to get away from Smithers before he was forced into making a promise that he might not be able to keep.

On level three, Walkman stood waiting in front of the lift.

"I'm supposed to take you to your—friend," the blonde guard said.

"Right," Alex said, and fell into step behind him.

The corridors were long and white-walled, with a surgical cleanness that made him feel like he was exploring a labyrinth inside a hospital—and probably, judging by Walkman's grim expression, headed for the morgue. Windowless steel doors lined both sides of the corridor, each with a heavy exterior padlock. Walkman turned two rights, and then left, and then right again. All of the corridors looked the same.

"Sorry about your jaw," Walkman said abruptly, glancing back at Alex.

Alex blinked. He had forgotten the bruise. "Why's that?" he asked absently, as he and Walkman turned left down another corridor.

"Well—I couldn't tell how young you were from behind."

Alex looked closely at the guard for the first time. The man couldn't have been older than twenty-five himself, and he already looked like he regretted the apology.

"How old do you think I am?" Alex asked, only half-interested.

"I don't know. Sixteen or seventeen, maybe?"

"Oh, thanks, but I'm actually thirty-five. It's all diet and exercise."

Walkman scowled. "You're just a bloody teenager."

"And if you had known that, you wouldn't have done your job?"

"I might not have hit you so hard," Walkman said, sounding disgruntled. "But if you'd have opened your mouth, I think I would've knocked your lights out."

"You would have tried," Alex said, shrugging.

Walkman's lip twitched, but whether from amusement or annoyance, Alex couldn't tell. He stopped suddenly in front of one of the many unmarked steel doors.

"Your friend is in there."

Alex looked at it for a long moment. True to form, the door was unnumbered, and a heavy padlock hung on the latch of the metal loop, although it wasn't locked.

"What is this level used for?" he asked.

"Storage," Walkman said promptly.

"Storage of what?"

"Classified."

Alex looked shrewdly at him, and then smirked. "You don't know. You're not important enough for them to trust, are you, Walkman?"

"Again, classified." Walkman flashed him a quick, lopsided grin. "And I hope to God that little bit of rhetoric wasn't an attempt to trick me, because it was just sloppy. Halfhearted, at best. You're sure you're a spy?"

Alex rolled his eyes and knocked on the door. "Jack?"

He heard a general yell of assent, and figured it was safe to go inside. He wrenched open the door—Jack was balancing on tiptoe on the bed, reaching toward a metal ventilation grate with her fingers spread wide, and when she turned to smile at Alex she lost her footing and toppled toward the floor in a blur of red hair.

"SHIT!" she blurted, wind-milling her arms.

Alex crossed the room in a few quick steps and caught her neatly.

"Jack."

"Yes, Alex."

"What are you doing?"

She stood up and dusted herself off. "There's a lock on the door, so I figured I should keep my eyes pealed for an escape route."

Alex studied the ventilation shaft. "It's too small, Jack. You'd never fit."

"I might," she protested. "If I turn sort of diagonally and—and wriggle in past my shoulders and my hips, it might work."

"Or you might end up wedged a few meters into the shaft, blind and claustrophobic, making friends with the spiders and rats."

Jack winced. "Rats?"

Alex nodded, utterly dispassionate. "Probably."

"O-kay." Jack backed away. "Forget the ventilation shafts. I'll tunnel my way out instead." She scowled darkly. "Trust MI6 to be so damn hospitable."

Alex looked around. The room was, indeed, as small and sparse as a prison cell—it contained a single brass bed, a small wooden table, a broken chair, and some bookshelves nailed to the wall. There was a separate bathroom, too, with a decent-sized shower behind frosted glass, but Alex knew that Jack would die of boredom if confined here for too long.

"Bloody MI6," Alex muttered.

"They're only trying to protect you," Walkman said from the doorway.

Alex and Jack both spun toward him, surprised; they hadn't realized that the guard was still watching them. Walkman turned away quickly, as though someone else had spoken the words and he, too, was searching for the culprit.

"Protect me?" Jack said scathingly. "Is that a joke?"

"You're a civilian," Walkman insisted, "and you've got a target on your head. Would you rather be on the streets, on your own, waiting for a bullet in the back of your brain?"

"Tough love, huh?" Alex muttered.

"No—but I would rather have Ian Rider alive," Jack snapped, pinning Walkman down with the steel in her green eyes. "I would rather Alex be a normal teenager, without nightmares or bullet wounds, and I'd rather MI6 leave him the hell alone, and I'd rather neither of us have to worry about—about snipers and viruses and a new Dark Age."

"Jack," Alex said sharply.

He knew she had been eavesdropping on the briefing, but he had figured—wrongly, he supposed—that she would have the sense to keep the information to herself.

"A Dark Age?" Walkman repeated, scratching his head.

Jack opened her mouth to speak, but Alex touched her arm, a gesture of warning, and, for some inexplicable reason, Walkman glowered at him.

"Five minutes," he said, slamming the door.

"He's pretty moody for MI6, isn't he?" Jack muttered, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the mattress.

"Jack, you can't tell anybody what you heard during that briefing."

"I know." Jack sighed. "But doesn't that guy just piss you off?"

Alex smiled wryly. "Actually, I like him a lot better than most of the hypocrites who run this place." He reached into his pocket. "We don't have much time. I want to give you this."

Jack's lips parted in surprise. "Alex—"

"It's a communication device. Press the back left to record messages, and press the back right to listen to them. I have one. Smithers does too, so try not to make too many jokes about fat British guys."

Jack didn't laugh. "What good is this?"

"Well, I'll be able to let you know if you ought to start planning my funeral, at least."

"Not funny, Alex."

His grin faded. "I'm sorry."

Jack slipped the bracelet around her wrist, hooked the clasp, and pulled her sleeve over it. For a few minutes, she didn't speak. Then, abruptly, she clapped her hands together.

"Tell you what, Alex. I've been wanting to do some climbing lately. Like we used to when—well—like we used to. As soon as you get back from this mission, we'll pack up for a holiday and go climb the Valkyrie. I'll pack a picnic lunch. How does that sound?"

Alex hesitated. He knew Jack meant it as a treat, but it had been three or four years since she, Alex, and Ian had free-climbed the Valkyrie, a massive, sheer rock wall that comprised part of the Roaches in the Peak District. And it had been a good climb. Rain swept down on them as they made their way up the rock, and Alex had discovered a hidden foothold that made the climb a hundred times easier. Ian had sung his praise the only way he ever did—a slight smile, a nod, and "well done, Alex."

Alex didn't think he could ever stand to return to the Roaches, because it would mean confronting the truth. Ian Rider had known government secrets and hid them all behind that innocuous half-smile. He had killed; on several occasions, he had nearly been killed. And he had planned the rock-climbing excursion as just one component of a massive, childhood-encompassing training program for his nephew.

And, at the time, Alex hadn't a clue.

"Alex?" Jack prompted. "Wouldn't you like to climb the Valkyrie again?"

Alex nodded quickly. "Yeah. That sounds like fun."

Jack stared at him, her lips pursed. Then she turned away.

"You're always so careful when you talk to me. It's like you're afraid to say something wrong." She glanced back at him. "But it's just me, Alex. You don't have to be careful."

Jack's blazing honesty had been so unexpected that, for a moment, Alex hadn't known what to say. And in that moment, he had verified her suspicions. But then he had regained his composure and made some would-be-reassuring remark about how, in a month's time, they would be sitting at the top of a two-thousand foot cliff with a picnic lunch. Thankfully, Walkman had knocked to indicate that time was up, and Alex had said good-bye to a crestfallen Jack before following Walkman out to the garage.

"Best of luck, kid," Walkman had said, rather stiffly.

Then Alex had climbed into a car with an undercover driver, and then he had been flown via private jet to Grimsby, and then he had been transported in shackles and blindfold to the remote, barren dock where he sat now. Cold. Tired. And infuriatingly confused.

The old ferry pulled away from the dock with a shudder. It moved at a steady pace, its bow ploughing through the ocean, the prison growing larger with each passing second. Alex was perfectly content to sit back and enjoy the ride, albeit with a sullen pout, but then he heard footsteps behind him.

"Comfortable?" a woman asked sweetly.

A hand caught a fistful of Alex's hair and twisted his head painfully around; he found himself staring up into the cold gray eyes of a five foot four, hundred and ten pound woman. She looked in her mid-thirties or forties, but stress or cigarettes had aged her face prematurely. There was still something quite pretty about her; the severe black bun and the complete lack of make-up couldn't disguise some natural softness in her face.

But Alex was forced to amend his first impression when she hit him, hard, across the face.

"What was that for?" he snapped.

"Looking."

The woman paced around the chair and stood over Alex, her hands clasped and lowered awkwardly to one side. To Alex, it looked as though she couldn't help but pray, and despised the inconvenience it caused her.

"Jacob Holt," she said calmly, her eyes raking him up and down. "Multiple counts of assault. Two murder charges."

"Enjoys rock-climbing and long walks on the beach," Alex added.

She squinted down at him. "I'm sorry, Holt. What was that?"

He stared blankly at the grime between the wooden planks.

"Is this all a joke to you, Holt? The rest of your life on a godforsaken spit of rock, no daylight, no rest, no hope—pissing in your bedroom, sleeping in your coffin—does that sound amusing?"

"Somewhat," Alex said tonelessly.

The woman smiled sweetly. "Well. In a week's time, I'll pay you a little visit, and we'll see who's laughing."

The stocky man who had chained Alex's ankles to the anchor stepped out onto the deck. "Warden, we're nearly there."

Alex looked up, surprised; the boat had spanned three miles faster than he could have imagined. The island was less than half a mile ahead, its dark shapes and ominous shoreline unfolding grudgingly from the fog.

"Remove his handcuffs," the woman—and, apparently, the warden—commanded.

The guard fumbled with the cuffs around Alex's wrists, and a moment later the chains dropped in a pile to the wooden deck. The warden moved across the deck to the railing. A few strands of her dark bun had come loose.

"Lovely. Join me, Holt; I would hate for you to miss out on this splendid view."

Alex got to his feet and made his way across the deck—sullen but obedient—with the anchor dragging heavily from his ankles. He nearly stumbled twice before making it to the railing. Ten feet below the railing, dark waves churned and collapsed upon themselves in a violent white froth. Alex could feel some of the cold spray on his face.

"The depth varies," the warden said, without looking at Alex, "but it's deeper than you think. If you swim in the wrong direction, you'll drown before you hit bottom. The currents are strong and violent. And even if you can manage to keep your head above water, the hypothermia will set in so fast that you won't have time to feel good about yourself."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "I'll keep that in mind if I ever get the urge to take a swim."

"I hope so. Too many prisoners think they can swim their way to the mainland." She stared straight back at him, unflinching, with a painful uncloaked gaze that bored straight into Alex's soul. "You're strong. And there's something—different about you. But if you attempt to swim these waters, you will die. Are we clear?"

Alex smirked. Quiet but confident.

"I don't know. I'm a pretty strong swimmer."

Inexplicably, the warden smiled back, and Alex felt an instinctual surge of adrenaline that Ian had trained him for, and that he couldn't explain. He knew only that something was wrong.

Then powerful hands grabbed him from behind and lifted him off the deck; he lashed out blindly, but whoever had grabbed him had a grip like iron—he reached down desperately to grab the railing, but it was too far beneath him, and then it was too far behind him, and the warden was laughing, and Alex was plunging headfirst into the tempestuous waters.

**If you've gotten this far, might as well push the little review button... :) And thanks to everyone who has been giving me feedback!  
**

**Nylah**. Thanks so much! I am going to put at least one member of the K-Unit into the mix…I can't help myself. You're totally right about Alex's decision being OOC, but part of the story kind of hinges on it. :( Hopefully it'll still work ok…Alex's decision isn't set in stone yet. Thanks again for your review!

**BellaBooTwilight.** Hi, thanks so much for the review! Planning the mission and writing the fight scene both took the most time, so I'm really glad those stood out to you! Thanks again and I hope you keep reading!

**rmiller92.** Yes, stupid Blunt. We are definitely in agreement. :) Thanks for reviewing! I'm glad you mentioned that Alex's anger is normal. I like the idea that we see things from his perspective, but we can also take a step back and judge for ourselves…anyway, thanks for the review and I'll update as soon as I can!

**SkyRider. ** Haha, thanks! Wow, I'm so glad the fight scene seems to have worked pretty well! I only wish I actually knew what I was talking about. :) Thanks so much for reviewing!

**sheluby94dreamer. ** Hi, thanks so much for the review! Alex is finally starting his mission…I hope you'll keep reading and let me know what you think!

**Emmy-loo. ** Thanks for another thoughtful review! I'm glad you like the dynamic with Jack. I always wish she'd be included a little more in the books. The peppermint thing is just one of those weird details I've sort of grown attached to. And the angst-o-meter…haha, that's awesome! Thanks! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Jusmine. **Thanks for the review! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! Haha yeah, I love the k-unit too much to leave them out. One of them will have a role but I'm not sure how center-stage it'll be. Thanks again, I'll update as soon as I can!

**Ponyboy65. ** Thanks for the review! I love sarcastic-Alex, too. I'm really glad you're enjoying the story! Let me know what you thought about this chapter…and stay gold. :)

**PleiadesWolfe. ** Hey, thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you like the idea and I hope it stays interesting…there might be some twists along the way. Hope you liked this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm not entirely happy with this, but I'm leaving for a week of music camp tomorrow, and I wanted to post this before I left. Also, this chapter's a bit longer. I had to end it at a certain place. Enjoy!  
**

**Disclaimer: Alex Rider is not mine. (At least, not in the legal sense :)**

Alex's head plunged into water, and the whole world melted into dark, churning waves. His body had slammed against something rough—stars swam in his vision for a few dangerous moments, but the ice-cold water jerked him back awake. He was dangling upside-down by his ankles from the top deck. The anchor had caught on the upper railing, and the chain extended only far enough to put Alex's head underwater. Hardly daring to believe his luck, Alex twisted his torso upward and reached for the chain.

Then the guard unhooked the chain from the anchor. Before Alex knew what was happening, he had dropped like a stone into the ocean.

Flurries of tiny bubbles rushed past him. The cold was so intense that his muscles seized up. The surface could have been in any direction—angry currents pulled and tugged at him, like the hands of drowned corpses trying to claim his soul. No—the worst he could do was panic. Air, he needed air, but which way was up? The cuffs at his ankles were making it harder to swim—but if the weight of the metal was pulling him in one direction, Alex thought with an odd, frantic calm, he would find air in the opposite direction.

He stroked his arms, kicked both chained feet, and prayed that his head would break the surface—

And it did. For a split second, the warden and the guard saw a blonde sunburst explode through the crest of a wave. Alex gasped a greedy breath, blinking saltwater out of his eyes. Then another wave shoved his head back under. The warden had not been exaggerating—he never should have pressed his luck with her.

"_I'm a pretty strong swimmer." _

Fucking brilliant.

He kicked to the surface again, but another swell crested white and came crashing down on his head. He would never manage to swim to the island; he could barely keep afloat, and with each passing second it became more difficult to ignore the dangerous numbness spreading down his limbs.

_Well done, Alex. _

Apparently, the posthumous Ian Rider was fluent in sarcasm.

Alex kept kicking as hard as he could. Jack would be devastated by his death. Jones and Blunt were a different story. Mrs. Jones's dark eyes would flicker. A weight would settle in her heart, and she would probably have a nightmare or two, but she would keep her composure and pop peppermints like candy—which, in fact, they were. Blunt, meanwhile, would lean back in that chair of his, supremely detached, and would make some cool remark. If only Alex hadn't been so difficult. If only he had committed himself to doing the job, and doing it right.

Alex felt a pang at his heart that had nothing to do with his bullet wound. This end was unfathomable. After everything he had been through, after escaping torture and burning buildings and assassination attempts, he was going to die before his new mission even began.

That, as Ian Rider would say, was unacceptable.

Alex swam as hard as he could, timing his movements carefully so that the waves would carry him forward instead of pushing him under. He welcomed the burn in his arms and legs; it meant his blood was flowing. The warden was shouting something, but he ignored her—let her gloat, while she could. All he cared about was that her shout was coming from off to his left. This was a good sign. He had fallen off the starboard side of the ferry, with its bow facing the island, so if the boat (and the warden) were on his left, this meant that the shore was directly in front of him. He kept swimming, counting in his head with intense focus.

One, two—_kick_.

Three, four—_breathe._

One, two—_kick._

Three, four—

Alex's whole body turned cold. His legs were starting to cramp up, and he could've sworn that the chains were heavier than they had been five minutes ago, but he had been fine until he looked up and caught a glimpse of the island.

It was much farther away than he thought.

"HOLT!" the guard roared. "ON YOUR LEFT!"

Alex turned to look. There was something white bobbing next to him—a seagull—no—a lifesaver?

Alex lunged for the flotation device and grabbed hold with both hands. He didn't care where it had come from. He only cared that it was there, and no matter what the warden did, she couldn't stop this small white ring from floating.

A moment ago, Alex had been swimming with powerful strokes. Now, he couldn't even muster the energy for a feeble kick. He bobbed there in the ocean and let the guard to reel him in.

Seconds later, the same strong hands that had thrown Alex off the ferry's edge hauled him up onto the fiberglass floor of a smaller dinghy. The warden and the guard had climbed down into the dinghy by rope ladder; now, the guard started up the engine and steered toward shore. Alex stared up at the gray sky, his shirt sticking to him and his drenched hair plastered to his skin. He couldn't tell if it was his chest or the boat that was rising and falling so rapidly.

The guard moved in to administer CPR.

"Hey!" Alex scrambled back and pushed himself up onto one of the seats. "I'm clearly breathing, aren't I?"

The guard looked churlishly at him. Without a word, the warden draped a towel over Alex's shoulders and steered the dinghy toward the craggy shore.

"What the hell kind of homicidal pleasure cruise is this?" Alex snapped.

The warden looked coldly into his eyes—which, for her, were the serious brown eyes of a killer. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "_Who_ did you say was homicidal?"

Alex shook his head. "You can't play that card. This isn't a court of law—you can't drown someone just because you thought you'd like to test out an eye for an eye."

His words were too logical. He quickly arranged his face into a defiant teenage pout. The warden studied him for a long moment; this one she would have to watch out for.

"Earlier, I was telling the truth," she said finally, looking away and making a slight steering adjustment. "Too many cons think they can swim their way to freedom. Better you get a taste now than you drown later."

Alex didn't even know what to say to that, and his words wouldn't make a difference anyway. He pulled the blanket around his shivering shoulders. Thunder rumbled overhead, the first notes of a storm.

A half hour later, dressed in Stony Creek's standard-issue white shirt and blue jumpsuit, Alex walked down the long concrete driveway to the main prison. It was raining heavily, but apparently no one at Stony Creek bothered with umbrellas.

Alex was being escorted by three guards—one in front of him, and two behind. The arrangement, he thought scornfully, fell a little short of genius. He could easily grab the front guard, spin him around, use him as a hostage. Alex's wrists and ankles were cuffed, but he could pull the chain at his wrists around the guard's neck, and he could—well, he wouldn't actually hurt the man. Unless he had to.

But escape was not Alex's goal. He walked quietly until he came to steel double doors. The guard slid his card through the slot and punched five numbers on the keypad. 5-1-0—but then he shifted his weight sideways and blocked the last two numbers.

"Home, sweet home," the guard sneered, as the doors whooshed open.

The lobby reminded Alex of a bare warehouse. There were catwalks and corridors that led to the cellblocks, and barred, dirty windows that filtered light from near the ceiling. Another guard, short, muscular, and dark-haired, stood across the room. He seemed almost comically enthralled by a monochromatic painting of a prison fence.

"That's your corrections officer," the first guard said, nodding at the dark-haired man. "He'll show you to your cell."

"Can't wait," Alex mumbled.

"What was that?"

"I can't wait, sir."

He thought for a moment that the guard was going to hit him. Instead, the man gave Alex an ugly sneer and stalked away. Alex blinked innocently at the two remaining guards and then started off toward his corrections officer. The concrete felt cold through the thin soles of his white, prison-issue tennis shoes. Alex could already think of five ways that the shoelaces could come in handy, but for now he was just glad that he had been given tennis shoes at all—

"Jacob Holt?"

Alex looked up sharply. "Sir."

The corrections officer's eyes snapped down to Alex's face—their gazes locked in a moment of initial, dangerous shock. The officer recognized something in Alex that he hadn't expected, and now the gears were turning behind his hawk-like eyes as he made some serious, rapid readjustments. Alex, meanwhile, was trying not to keep bland and apathetic. The silence was agonizing.

"Jacob Holt," the corrections officer said abruptly. "You're half an hour late."

Alex shrugged. "If you have some other appointment, I can come back later."

A muscle twitched in the officer's jaw. "Shut. Up."

"Don't y—"

"I mean it, Holt. Not another bloody word, or the warden will throw every book she can find at you."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Even the Bible?"

"Especially that."

"What about _Green Eggs and Ham_?"

The corrections officer responded with a death glare, at subzero temperatures; Alex could've sworn he felt the chill. He bit back his next remark, and the officer smiled sarcastically.

"You seem to learn pretty fast, so try to remember all of this. No sleeping until lights out. No written or verbal contact with anyone else on the cellblock. No talking, except during meals and rec time. No concealment of any foreign objects in your cell or on your person, at any time. No smiling. No whining; my job is obnoxious enough. No—um, no concealment of any—"

"—Foreign objects in your cell or on your person, at any time." Alex looked blandly at him. "I think you already mentioned that one, sir. Maybe try a different mnemonic device next time."

The officer scowled. "I was testing you." He grabbed Alex by the shoulder and led him roughly down the first corridor, until they came to a long row of cells. "You'll be housed here in the D Block."

He stopped at an empty cell, turned his key in the lock, and slid open the barred door. Alex stepped inside, careful not to trip over the chains; the officer shoved him from behind and slammed the door shut.

"Homesick yet?"

Alex shook his head solemnly. "No, sir. My parents are dead."

"Well, I mean." The officer looked uncomfortable. "Regardless of that, you must have had a home."

Alex laughed ironically. "Did you even glance at my file? I grew up on the street, eating cardboard and sleeping in storm drains."

The officer's lip twitched. He busied himself with his key ring and unlocked a small rectangular slot in the cell door.

"Hands."

Alex extended his wrists, and the officer unlocked the cuffs. Then he leaned over and unlocked the ankle cuffs through the bars, glaring up as though daring Alex to make a single smart remark.

"Thanks," Alex said simply, flexing his wrists.

He looked around his cell. It made Jack's room at the MI6 headquarters look like a penthouse suite at the Hilton. The cell was five feet by nine, with a cot and a steel sink and toilet. One narrow shelf ran along the back wall, and two more, square-shaped shelves were nailed to the right wall in such an arrangement that Alex suspected they were supposed to pass for a desk and chair. Also on the right wall, inches from the barred cell door, there was a red button on a small, intercom-style panel.

"Room service?" Alex guessed.

"That's the emergency alarm," the officer said, in a determinedly flat voice. "If you're about to drop dead, feel free to give it a push. You'll get fast medical attention. But if you push that button and there's no emergency, we'll create one for you. Sound fair?"

Alex looked coolly back at him.

"Good," the officer snapped.

He strode quickly away, as though he had somewhere more important to be on the little godforsaken island. Alex sat down on his cot and scanned the room for anything useful. A tiny air vent, clogged with cobwebs. The emergency button—push at your own risk. So far, Ian seemed to have been wrong; prison was not particularly cushy.

Before Alex could start to wonder what to do next, another guard showed up and passed Alex a slip of paper and a blue crayon through the bars.

"Mandatory survey," the guard said.

Alex shrugged, bored-faced, and skimmed the first two questions.

_Would you be willing to inform on other inmates in exchange for a) more food, b) an extra blanket, c) immunity from beatings, d) five minutes of sunlight each morning?_

_Would you be interested in participating in a) Creative Expressions™ hour, b) chapel, c) organized sports, d) basket weaving?_

"Is this a joke?" Alex asked.

"Just circle all that apply."

"Right."

Alex passed the paper and crayon back through the bars without making a single mark on the survey. The guard didn't look surprised. He scribbled _J. Holt _at the top of the paper and left Alex alone.

Less than half an hour later, inmates flooded the corridor, silent except for the scuffing of feet and the occasional voice of a pissed-off guard. The cell doors rattled open and the prisoners settled in for the night. Some of them leered at Alex as they passed; others look faintly curious; most, however, ignored him.

Then, abruptly, the overhead lights turned off with a heavy _chunk_. Most of Alex's cell was cast into shadow. He lay down on the cot, which creaked beneath his weight. Ah, prison. Anyone who imagined that the life of a spy was glamorous ought to try this out. He beat his pillow into a halfway comfortable shape and stared up at the ceiling.

But a strange sound kept Alex awake. It started slowly at first, like a few raindrops plopping onto a smooth lake surface, and then it came faster and longer: a strange, hollow hissing sound. Perhaps something was deflating somewhere, or one of the inmates had a pet snake—or perhaps, Alex thought half-sarcastically, the whole cellblock was actually a gas chamber for those lucky inmates who had survived the boat ride.

He rolled into his side, pressing one ear against his pillow, but the hissing seemed to crescendo. It echoed from one end of the corridor to the other like whispers in a subterranean cave, bouncing off the stone and getting lost somewhere in the darkness. He hoped that, at MI6 headquarters, Jack was sleeping more soundly than he was.

ARARAR

Jack Starbright couldn't sleep. Her door had been locked barely an hour after Alex left—for protection, Walkman shouted through the door at a hysterical Jack, for her own protection! And now she lay on her bed with all the lights on, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the screams.

It had started at about nine o' clock at night. Jack had been reading one of the horrible, government-propaganda-on-steroids books that MI6 had provided for her, when a muffled cry invaded the silence. It lasted only a few seconds; Jack was sure she had imagined it, and she returned to the dialogue of the prize-winning boar in _Animal Farm._

Fifteen minutes later, while Jack was wondering if MI6 knew that the antagonist of the book was someone named Jones, a shriek split the air. Jack felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The scream had been human, and raw, and much longer than before.

When Walkman opened the door at ten o' clock to bring Jack a late-night snack, he found her sitting cross-legged on her bed. She was hunched over and whispering furiously to herself.

"You alright?" he said cautiously.

Jack sat up straight, looking startled and slightly guilty. "I—well, what do you think?"

"I—don't know." The blonde guard set a metal tray on the small wooden table. "I saw that you didn't eat much of your dinner—"

"I hate meatloaf," Jack shrugged.

"—So here's something to tide you over."

It was a tray of apple slices, cheese, salami, and crackers, arranged in a half-circle like a gourmet appetizer plate. Jack couldn't help but laugh.

"Lovely. But where's the wine?"

He grinned awkwardly. "Trust me, I would have brought you some. But this is all that's left over from a banquet last week. The higher-ups like their alcohol."

"The same higher-ups that forbade Alex's mission?"

Walkman shrugged, his face suddenly turning bland. "I don't know anything about Alex's mission, and I don't want to know, either. My job is to guard you and the others here."

"What others?" Jack said instantly.

"Classified."

"I heard screaming," Jack persisted. "What others? What the hell is going on here?"

"You didn't hear screaming," Walkman said calmly. "The pipes squeal sometimes."

"It wasn't pipes I heard," Jack said, folding her arms.

"I understand that unexplained sounds can be scary when you're in a new environment," he said.

"Don't patronize me. Why am I being held here?"

"For your own—"

"For my own protection, I get it," Jack snapped, toying with the silver chain at her wrist. "But why here? Why not a safehouse somewhere?"

Walkman looked as though he wished he had simply given her the tray and kept his mouth shut. When he spoke, however, it was with a learned, emotionless drawl.

"Safehouses are for those who only need shelter. If you're being kept here, it could mean one of many possibilities—you know something that could be useful to MI6, or you have information that can't leave this building until a certain mission is completed, or you're at high risk and being protected here for an indeterminate timespan—"

"Or they're using me to blackmail Alex," Jack said coldly.

"I can assure you that's not true."

She glared at him. "I don't want the food. You can take it."

"I wish you'd eat it."

"I wish you'd tell me what the hell that screaming was all about," Jack said, folding her arms.

"Pipes, Miss Starbright." He stepped out into the corridor. "If you need anything else, I'll be in the corridor until two."

He closed the door, and Jack heard the lock click into place. He had left her the tray of food, and it looked deliciously tempting, but she refused to take even a bite. She was sure there were cameras watching her.

Then there was another scream—which, she supposed, could have been the squealing of the loudest, most tortured pipe she'd ever heard—and she quite lost her appetite.

On an island off the shore of Grimsby, Alex Rider finally drifted into a dreamless sleep, but in an underground bedroom-turned-prison cell, Jack kept the lights on and didn't dream of sleeping.

ARARAR

The next morning, Alex woke up to a shrill, grating alarm. It jolted him back to his brief stay at Brecon Beacons—he rolled out of bed before his eyes were open. The bare lights had turned on at the same time as the alarm, and Alex had to squint to see his corrections officer, who stood grim-faced on the other side of the bars.

"Morning, Holt. One hundred press-ups (1). Get started."

Alex looked across the corridor at a few of the other cells, and sure enough, the teenage convicts were dropping into press-up positions. Corrections officers stood outside each cell, sometimes shouting insults at the inmates, sometimes shouting encouragement.

Alex looked mournfully at his officer. "I grew up on the street. I've never learned how to do a proper press-up."

"Heartbreaking."

"Do you think you could—sort of—demonstrate?" Alex asked innocently.

The corrections officer scowled. "Nice try, k—kid."

Alex raised an eyebrow at the stutter, but obediently dropped into a press-up position and began the exercise. He was strongly reminded of Winston Smith_, _slogging through the grueling Physical Jerks every morning, always with the awareness that Big Brother is watching (2).

When Alex finished the press-ups, his officer ordered him to do one hundred crunches and one hundred jumping jacks, and only then did he unlock the cell and lead Alex down the corridor toward the mess hall.

"You're permitted to talk at mealtimes," he said, "but don't make a scene. If you fuck up, you'll lose the privilege faster than you can blink."

Alex followed without enthusiasm. He could imagine the stereotypical prison breakfast—a bowl of gray porridge, lumpy and cold, served without a spoon. He would probably chip his tooth on a rock or something, and a few of the older prisoners would threaten to beat him unless he surrendered his stale slab of month-old bread.

The picture was more Hollywood than Stony Creek, Alex knew, but he wasn't even slightly prepared for what he saw when he stepped inside the mess hall.

The inmates stood in a long line, each holding a plastic tray and waiting patiently while those in front of them were served scrambled eggs, bacon, and French toast sticks with maple syrup. At another line, inmates slid their trays along a fruit and yogurt bar, filling their bowls with yogurt, strawberries, blueberries, and granola. Juice and milk was self-serve at a long table.

"What the . . ." Alex muttered.

His corrections officer stood beside him, almost grinning.

"The warden says that, historically, the biggest cause of prison riots is bad food. She didn't want to take that risk."

"The warden is a good woman," Alex said solemnly.

"I'll second that."

Alex took a tray from the stack and got in line for food. Ten minutes later, his mouth watering for the first decent breakfast he'd had since Jack decided she'd rather not cook while she was still half-asleep, he turned toward the tables.

Inmates were scattered across the round and rectangular tables, chatting amongst themselves, some of them almost identical in their light-blue jumpsuits. Alex could see several empty seats, and even a few empty tables, but he was looking for the pale face and dark hair of Devon Bartoy.

Soon, with a jolt of recognition, he found the target. Devon's white skin looked even paler than it had in the picture, and his dark hair was now short and slightly messy, instead of slicked back, but there was no mistaking the sharp, angular face.

Alex walked slowly in Devon's direction. The boy was sitting with four or five other cons, and he was talking to them with a total ease and confidence that impressed Alex. Devon had only been in prison for two months—he must have adjusted quickly.

Suddenly, in mid-sentence, Devon looked up. His dark gaze shot across the room, and his eyes locked with Alex's.

_Shit._

Alex looked away quickly, but the damage was done.

Even if the eye contact had been coincidental, it would seem suspicious for Alex to sit at Devon's table now. But he continued walking in Devon's direction anyway—it would look even more suspicious to change course. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. He could play innocent. He had seen Devon glance at him, and noticed the empty places at Devon's table, and he was wondering if these seats were taken—

Someone collided forcefully with Alex from behind. He stumbled and, luckily, managed to keep hold of his breakfast tray. It wouldn't have been especially helpful to spill yogurt on the surly-looking convicts at the table in front of him. Alex continued walking, but someone shouted from behind him:

"Oy, watch where you're bloody walking!"

Alex ignored him, but the con grabbed him from behind and pulled him around.

"Not hard of hearing, are you?"

The con was a good few inches taller than Alex, with a shaved head, small watery eyes, and the sturdy build of a linebacker in American football. There was something restless about him—Alex assumed the con was picking a fight for lack of anything better to do.

"It was an accident," he said, hoping this would be the end of it.

"Yeah?" The con blinked, confused. "Well—your face is an accident, you dickhead."

Alex bit his lip painfully to keep from laughing.

"Don't let it happen again," the con snarled, "or I'll find you alone and I'll fuck you up good."

"Thanks, but I don't quite swing that way," Alex said calmly, and tried not to look amused as the con's face turned red with mental effort. Finally, the skinhead came right out and asked:

"What the fuck does that mean? You being smart with me?"

Alex shrugged and turned away.

He saw the fist flying at him out of the corner of his eye. He should have known it was coming, but he had assumed that the con wouldn't be suicidal enough to pick a fight in plain view of about twenty guards and even more corrections officers. The hit slammed against Alex's temple and sent him reeling—he dropped his tray immediately and blocked the next punch, with a push that sent the con stumbling backward against the side of a table.

The con attacked again, with almost a growl. He was a sloppy fighter. On the street, he must have relied on his sheer size and power to gain the upper hand.

Alex dodged each wild blow—which, in truth, wasn't difficult. A half-circle of onlookers had risen from their seats, jeering and swearing, sounding more pissed off than anything else. Alex was intensely aware of his audience. He wanted to end this fight quickly, without looking too capable or too weak.

With all of his strength, Alex hit his opponent in the jaw. It was identical to the punch Walkman had thrown at him the previous day, and it sent the skinhead reeling backward. Then Alex stepped forward and pushed his stumbling opponent as hard as he could. The con tripped, flew backward, and thudded onto a table of breakfast trays. Around him, the inmates shot up, brushing food off their laps and shouting angrily.

"Fuck, man!"

"When will you get tired of this shit?"

The con struggled up off the table, but guards materialized around him. When he lunged toward Alex again, fists flying, the guards grabbed the con by both arms and held him back. Another guard grabbed Alex's arm; Alex acted like he was struggling, just for realism's sake.

Then, out of nowhere, a fist slammed into his diaphragm. Alex gasped and doubled over—a careless shove sent him sprawling on the ground.

He looked up. His corrections officer stood over him with his muscular arms folded. "I thought I told you not to make a scene, kid."

Alex glared from the floor, struggling for breath.

"SHUT UP!" one of the corrections officers roared suddenly.

A few of the more obedient inmates quieted, but most of the chaotic yelling continued.

"QUIET, THE LOT OF YOU!"

But the noise actually increased in volume: a few of the inmates were being wrestled away, because they had resorted to throwing food at Alex and the other con. There was a decent amount of jeering.

"Anyone I see talking gets garbage duty," one of the guards said loudly.

It was as though he had threatened every one of them with a slow and painful death; an immediate hush fell over the crowd. The corrections officers began herding the prisoners back to the cellblocks. As the mass of blue jumpsuits shuffled out, they mostly avoided Alex's eye. A few scowled at him.

Then Alex saw Devon. The pale boy seemed calm and apathetic, just another face in the crowd. But as he walked past, Devon looked straight at Alex and gave him a slight nod. It was almost too easy. Alex hadn't even approached Devon yet, but the kid already seemed willing to trust Alex. Or, at least, to communicate with him.

Then Devon was gone, and the corrections officer was hauling Alex roughly to his feet.

"Do you know what we do to prisoners who break the rules, Holt?" he hissed, twisting Alex's arms behind his back.

"I guess I'm about to find out," Alex muttered.

Two other guards had gathered around. They leered at him and patted their billy clubs against their palms, in what Alex considered a tacky rendition of every cop movie he'd ever seen.

But Alex's corrections officer shook his head at the other guards. "No. I'm going to handle this one myself—you know what the warden says. Just keep a lookout."

The way he said it, it sounded like he was planning a murder and would need somewhere to stash the body afterward. He smirked at Alex and dragged him across the cafeteria, until they reached a heavy metal door marked "Keep Out."

"Go on," the officer snapped.

Alex opened the door; the officer pulled him inside and slammed the door behind them. It was a boiler room, dimly lit, with concrete walls and a network of metal pipes along the walls and the ceiling. There were no windows, no witnesses. The walls were so thick that even the loudest voice wouldn't be overheard.

Alex looked at his corrections officer. The man sighed and glanced back to check that the door was securely shut. Then he folded his arms.

"Cub," Wolf said, "what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?"

**AN: (gasp) How unexpected! Haha. How many people knew it was him? I love Wolf lots and lots, so he'll have a decent-sized role from now on. Also, I just bought Ark Angel! Whee! Drop me a line and let me know what you thought of this chapter!  
**

**1) British word for push-ups, I believe?**

**2) From _1984. _Good book. Read it. **

**Thanks to all the kind reviewers!  
**

**Nylah. **Wow, you've been first to review on every chapter so far! :) Heh, yeah, I know nothing about juvenile prisons. I'm sure they're not this harsh, but...um...this one's a special case! lol. And thanks for your help with the technical stuff! ABH and GBH (makes mental note)

**Ferrelyn Zellaby. **Aw, thanks so much! I'm not sure if that's true but it's an enormous compliment. :D

**rmiller92. **Look, he's okay! No lasting harm! :) Thanks for reviewing!

**AleksandryaGregonovitch. **I hate cliffies too. Honestly. But it just had to happen... :) Thanks for your input! The next update might be a slightly longer wait than usual, but I'll post as soon as possible.

**sheluby94dreamer. **Thanks for reviewing! The warden does seem pretty evil. I guess she doesn't love Alex like we do. :)

**sperare9. **Thanks, your encouragement will definitely help me write faster! Let me know what you think. I'll update soon after I get back from camp!

**Mizu1411. **Thanks for the review! Yeah, poor Alex...no one ever makes it easy for him, I guess. :)

**Ponyboy65. **Thanks! Sometimes humor is the only thing that gets us through those tense situations. :) Oh, and Alex gave Jack the bracelet that he was supposed to give Blunt. Sorry, I should have made it more clear in the chapter.

**PleiadesWolfe. **Thanks! Many twists still to come, and I only hope I'll be able to keep track of what's supposed to happen...lol. Hope you liked this chapter too! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Most of this chapter was written between the hours of 12 and 4am. :) I'm really sorry that this update took longer than usual...after I got home from music camp (where I played flute in an amazing wind ensemble), I found out that my uncle had passed away, AND I just got an internship, so things have been...busy, to say the least.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! **

**Edit: Oops, forgot two things. 1) Alex Rider is not mine. 2) WARNING for language on this chapter (and probably all future chapters. This is a prison, after all.)  
**

Alex met Wolf's eyes and thought he understood how it must feel to be trapped in a car at the railroad crossing, staring down a train. Wolf's glare was smoldering like the sparked fuse of a bomb; Alex lowered his eyes, wincing as he did so.

"Did you really have to hit me so hard?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely," Wolf said flatly, folding his arms. "Cub—what are you doing here?"

"My job," Alex said simply.

"Your job?" Wolf echoed, staring at him. "Your _job_, Cub? What was the fucking want ad? 'Smartass teenagers with a death wish'?"

Alex nodded seriously. "Kamikaze experience recommended. For some reason, they didn't have many takers."

"Right. Here's a new idea. Turn off your mouth and be serious for five seconds." Wolf rubbed his forehead. "When I was told I'd be sent into a juvenile prison to back an agent, I thought I'd see an agent in his early twenties, you know, someone who could pass for a teenager, but not actually—"

"Not me?" Alex said bluntly.

"Yeah. You could say that."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

Wolf sighed, massaging his temples. "Weren't you supposed to be out-of-commission, with some form of appendicitis otherwise known as a bullet wound?"

Alex was mildly surprised. "How'd you know about that?"

"Just rumors, Cub. I sent you a card and everything."

Alex shrugged. "I got shot in the chest. It healed. End of story."

Wolf stared at him. "It healed."

"Yes."

"A shot to the chest."

"Maybe you should get your hearing checked," Alex suggested.

"Cub, for God's sake! A chest wound isn't something you just bounce back from."

"It was two months ago."

"_Two months_?"

"Yeah. Two whole months."

Wolf swore and turned away. Alex watched with trepidation; he knew Wolf was a disciplined soldier, but that hadn't stopped the man from tormenting 'double-oh-nothing' at Brecon Beacons, and, Alex worried, it wouldn't stop him from exacting his rage and frustration on the innocent boiler.

But Wolf quickly regained control of himself. He exhaled slowly and looked at Alex.

"What's the mission?"

Alex frowned. "You don't already know?"

"Obviously not," Wolf snapped.

"Then I don't think I should tell you."

Wolf stared at Alex for a long moment, his dark eyes narrowed, scrutinizing something that Alex couldn't pinpoint. The man was intimidating, to say the least. But Alex kept his gaze calm and steady. Too many briefings with Alan Blunt had taught him the art of eradicating all traces of emotion.

"I can't believe this," Wolf said finally, turning away and pacing the length of the boiler room. "Bloody special ops. What happens if you get caught? What if you're exposed as an agent?"

"I can take care of myself," Alex said steadily.

Wolf regarded him with such heavy disapproval that Alex found himself almost missing Wolf's death glare. "You think your life is the only thing I'm worried about? You think I'd fret if they harmed a hair on your precious head?"

Alex blinked in surprise. "I didn't—"

"Better agents than you have been captured, and better agents have been killed. That's the job. But the problem with you, Cub, is that you're a teenager. A liability. Do you realize how fucked MI6 would be if you got yourself killed and the media found out about it?" He shook his head grimly. "I guess what they're saying is true."

"What are they saying?"

Wolf glared pointedly at him. "That MI6 has hit rock bottom, and they've started to dig."

Alex shrugged. He knew he shouldn't feel hurt, but he had been counting on getting an ounce of respect from his only ally on this mission. "I'm not planning on dying," he said flatly. "But if I do, MI6 will cover it up. Don't worry about them."

He hoped that hadn't sounded as bitter as it did in his head.

Wolf shifted awkwardly. "Listen, Cub. I'd also rather not see you killed."

"Thanks a bunch," Alex said.

"So I need you to tell me what your mission is."

"I don't think I can."

"Cub, if you want me to help you, I have to know what's going on."

"Fine." Alex smiled blandly at him. "I have to get close to someone, find something, and never breathe a word about it. Happy now?"

"Thrilled," Wolf said flatly. "Who's the someone?"

"It's one of the kids here. Devon Bartoy. He looks—um—sort of like a vampire."

"What can I do to help?"

Alex hesitated, thinking, but suddenly the silence was interrupted by a sharp knock at boiler room door.

"Alright in there, officer?"

Wolf and Alex both jumped. Quickly, Alex dropped to the concrete floor as though he'd been thrown there. Wolf smirked slightly at him, and then opened the door a crack, allowing a sliver of fluorescent light to fall across Alex's face.

"Alright in there?" a guard repeated, poking his head inside.

"I think the kid's just about learned his lesson," Wolf said brusquely, massaging his fist and looking down at Alex with contempt. Alex stared sullenly back at him.

The guard grinned. "Well, get him back to his cell when you're finished."

"Affirmative."

The door closed, and immediately, Alex stood up. The rest of his and Wolf's conversation would have to be postponed; the clock was ticking, and the guards might become suspicious if Alex was alone with Wolf for too long without bruises to show for it. Alex tugged at his own shirt collar and rumpled his hair, trying to look appropriately beat up. Wolf straightened his ID badge, which displayed his murderous-looking picture and a name: Clyde Torres.

"Please, Wolf," Alex said, looking seriously at him, "tell me that's not your real name."

Wolf looked down at the badge and scowled. "You shouldn't even know what that means."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "So that's a no?"

Wolf grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and dragged him out into the mess hall, silencing Alex's next question: what had Wolf done to piss off whoever had picked his code name? They crossed the empty mess hall and turned into the next corridor. "Let's go, Holt. Don't make me tell you twice."

They returned to the D block. No sooner had Alex been locked securely into his cell than the warden's voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

"Attention inmates. Thanks to your little spectacle at breakfast this morning, lunch will be served in your cells, with no talking. Violators will be heavily punished."

Groans layered the corridor from end to end. Alex knew that the inmates were probably going to blame him, and for the first time he felt grateful for the metal bars.

ARARAR

For about the thousandth time, Jack Starbright pounded on the locked door. "HELLO! ANYBODY OUT THERE?"

No response. Jack sank onto the floor, blinking back tears. She had no idea what time it was. It might have been ten o' clock. Midnight. Five in the morning. There were no clocks in her cell—_room, _she mentally corrected herself—and no one had visited her since Walkman brought the tray of food last night. Time had warped into something almost immeasurable—a liquid silk, an intangible sand, slipping through her fingers.

She scanned the room for cameras. She couldn't find any, but she knew they were there—perhaps a whole control room of MI6 recruits was watching right now. She waved frantically at one of the cobwebby corners.

"Hey! I feel like I've been in here for about a hundred years. How about some fresh air?"

She received no answer. With a sigh, she picked up another horrible book—this one nonfiction, a history of the CIA—and skimmed over a few pages. _Legacy of Ashes. _The same title could be applied to a history of the Rider family. And now, thanks to Alex—but it wasn't his fault, she reminded herself fiercely, not his fault—Jack had been caught in the crossfire. She was lucky she had even managed to last a year before MI6 started burning down her life.

Some amount of time later—it might have been an hour, or two hours, or five—the lock clicked and the door swung open. Two guards stood in the doorway, one with a casual hand in his pocket, the other with a tray of food. Jack felt almost disappointed. No Walkman.

"Good morning, Miss Starbright," the taller guard said. "We trust you slept well."

Jack stared coolly. "Really? Based on this whole situation, I would've guessed that you don't trust me at all."

The guards exchanged stony glances. Faced with Jack's comment, Walkman might have apologized, or looked slightly guilty, or promised that this was all for her own good, but these guards didn't bat an eyelash. They were the cream of MI6's brainwashed, emotionless crop.

"Here's some lunch, Miss Starbright. It would be most advantageous to eat it—you'll need your strength."

Before Jack could respond, the door slammed shut in her face. She heard the lock sliding into place, and she wanted to cry again. Her lunch was the most meager thing she'd ever seen—two slices of bread and a stale chunk of cheese. She couldn't remember ever feeling this lonely, not even when Alex disappeared on his missions. At least she had always been home.

She stepped into her makeshift confessional booth—the shower stall, with frosted glass doors and hopefully no cameras—and whispered into the transmitter on her bracelet. She prayed that Alex would check his messages soon. Then she returned to the main room and stared defiantly at the same cobwebby corner.

"Walkman," she said, "I could use a friendly face. Even yours."

No response, of course. She hadn't really expected one.

ARARAR

At Stony Creek Center, dinner was always the most dangerous meal of the day. Lunch was typically served at noon, and dinner not until six—these long hours without nourishment, including two hours of grunt work on the prison yard and one hour of a strictly non-social academic lecture, kept tensions running high.

Alex and Wolf followed the swarm of inmates into the mess hall. The place was alive with an angry, low buzzing—each inmate was as volatile as a caged animal until he got enough food on his plate.

"No looking for trouble this time, Holt," Wolf barked. "I mean it."

"Usually trouble comes looking for me," Alex snapped, jerking his arm out of Wolf's grasp.

"Then, for your sake, I hope you're damn good at hide and seek."

Alex raised an eyebrow—_hide and seek, Wolf? That's the best comeback you can think of?—_and then Wolf disappeared to the table of guards, and Alex took a dinner tray and joined the back of the queue. This menu was even more mouth-watering than breakfast: herb-grilled chicken, whipped potatoes, fresh fruit, and double-chocolate brownies for dessert.

Alex loaded up his tray and scanned for Devon's pale face. He wasn't disappointed—Devon and his friends were settling into the same table where they'd eaten breakfast. Balancing his tray, Alex crossed the mess hall carefully. He could feel Devon's eyes on him as he drew closer, but he pretended not to notice. When he reached the table, he sat down at the empty end and speared a bite of chicken.

All their eyes were on him now. Alex took a sip of orange juice.

"Oy! New kid!"

Feigning surprise, Alex looked up and matched a face to the voice that had addressed him: not Devon, but the ginger-haired teenager sitting next to him. The other four inmates at the table were watching with unreadable expressions.

"Yeah?" Alex said coolly.

"Where'd you fall from?"

"London," Alex said, and took another bite of his chicken.

"Is that so?" The ginger-haired boy, probably sixteen or seventeen, narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "You not a fish, are you?"

Alex had no idea what a fish was. "No," he said.

"What are you in for?" Devon asked quietly.

Automatically, Alex's mind flashed back to Jacob Holt's file, which he had studied on the flight to Grimsby. "I led a gang in London," he said offhandedly. "There were some—casualties, of course. I got charged for GBH and two counts of homicide. Then I spent some time at London Correctional, but they didn't like me too much."

Devon nodded thoughtfully. "Why'd you get transferred here?"

"I tried to start a revolt at London Correctional. And I bribed a few of the guards."

Alex spoke the words as though they were his life story, whose pages he'd grown slightly bored with. The ginger-haired boy nodded, satisfied, and returned to his food. But another convict, an eighteen-year-old with a tangled mass of dark hair down to his elbows, laughed harshly.

"What a fucking liar. Look at this kid. He's greener than grass. "

Devon sighed. "Do you always have to act tough, Mack?"

The aggressive con—Mack, apparently—huffed in indignation. "I don't have to _act_. But really—what makes this kid think he can just sit down with us? Look at him, the pretty boy. 'Bribed the guards.' Bet he thinks he can buy anything with the money lining Daddy's pocket."

Alex barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of _course _this kid had to make things difficult. Where Alex's missions were concerned, a little divine cooperation was just too much to ask for.

"Nothing to say for yourself, kid?" Mack snapped.

Alex hesitated. He knew he needed to say something, especially because of the suspicious stares that the inmates were throwing his way, but this was a tricky situation. He didn't want to fight with Mack, but he also didn't want to be labeled as a rich kid, or worse, a liar. He looked Mack up and down.

And then he smiled.

"Careful, Mack. Don't give too much away."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Mack spat.

The others—even Devon, who had until now maintained a cool indifference—were watching curiously. Alex only shrugged.

"Nothing."

"Don't fucking gimme that," Mack snarled, so defensively that he helped his own case about as much as Lady Macbeth. "What are you inferrin'?"

Alex shrugged. "I think you're touchy on the subject of bribery because that's what landed you here in the first place. You tried to pay off the guards at your last prison. I'm betting there's plenty of money 'lining Daddy's pocket,' as you put it."

Mack wet his lips nervously. "You gotta be kidding. Do I look like a rich kid to you?"

"Not just any rich kid," Alex said dryly. "You look like a rich kid trying to pass himself off as a street punk. And badly, at that. Hasn't anyone told you that greasy hair doesn't translate into street cred?"

Flushing scarlet, Mack half-rose from his seat. The cons on either side of him grabbed hold of his arms.

"You little bloody—" Mack growled.

"Careful," Alex repeated. He speared a piece of chicken. "Don't bark if you can't bite. Or didn't Daddy teach you that?"

For a long moment, Mack stared at Alex, the air between them crackling with tension—Devon's eyes glinted with something like amusement, or perhaps approval. The others waited with baited breath for someone to erupt.

Then, abruptly, Mack stormed away, casting furious glances over his shoulder.

A beat of silence

"Shit," the ginger-haired boy said, laughing incredulously. "_Shit._ I can't believe you just did that, kid."

Alex shrugged. "I was just telling the truth." _Sort of, _he added with a silent grin.

"Mack's always seemed sort of richie-rich," the ginger-haired boy remarked. "But he tries so bloody hard to seem tough—"

"We've been trying to get the greaseball to wash his hair all year," a dark-haired teenager with an American accent chimed in.

Alex laughed easily and drank the rest of his orange juice in one swallow. He wasn't a spy for nothing—he had easily observed the little tells in Mack's appearance. Callous-free hands. A mouthful of straight pearly whites. Clean nails that had clearly been manicured at some point in Mack's life. There was no way the kid had grown up on the street.

Then—

"I didn't grow up on the street, either," Devon said bluntly.

Silence followed, dead and slightly awkward. Alex knew that any potential for friendship with Devon would be solidified or dissolved by these next words. But he didn't hesitate.

"I don't care where you grew up. My only problem with Mack is that he pretends to be something he's not. I don't like hypocrites. Or liars."

Devon met his eyes briefly. "Me neither."

Alex stared back at him, startled. _Was that a threat?_

Then the pale boy blinked, and the tension broke. Devon and his friends returned to their previous conversation, in voices too low for Alex to hear. Alex picked at his food and wondered what his next move ought to be. Should he scoot his tray down the table and join the others? Should he wait until tomorrow? Should he—

"New kid!" the ginger-haired inmate called impatiently, from the other end of the table. "What's your name, again?"

"Jake," Alex said quickly.

"Jake. Right." The inmate smirked. "Do you think we have cooties or something, Jake?"

Alex couldn't help but grin. Who would've guessed that a bunch of thieves and murderers would have a sense of humor? He slid his tray down the table and settled in beside the ginger-haired convict.

"I'm Reid," the con said, clapping Alex on the shoulder. "These are Jess, Youssef, and Devon."

Jess, the dark-haired American boy, gave a little sarcastic wave. Youssef, a tall Arab inmate who looked about seventeen, shook Alex's hand firmly. Devon merely nodded.

"We were just talking about the asshole who started the fight at breakfast," Reid said, lowering his voice drastically. "Craig What's-his-Face. What a bloody cell soldier. He did start the fight, didn't he, Jake?"

Alex nodded. "He hit me from behind."

"'Course he did," Youssef said, looking surly. "We all fucking knew it."

"Craig picked a fight with me on my first day," Devon explained quietly. "We both ended up in the hole—solitary confinement—overnight."

Alex arched his eyebrows. "Wow. I guess I got off easy."

"Craig just likes to fuck things up," Jess said darkly. "He doesn't seem to realize that we get punished when he acts stupid."

"You sure kicked his ass, though, Jake."

"Yeah, New Kid. That was some wicked payback."

The cons spent the next five minutes or so abusing Craig with any insults they could dream up. The whole time, Alex was fighting a smile. Perhaps some greater power was on his side, after all—he had managed to publicly win a fight against the most hated inmate at Stony Creek.

At one point, Wolf walked past with his nearly overflowing dinner tray. He caught Alex's eye through the crowd, and then briefly flicked his eyes to Devon. It was a silent question—_this the kid? _

Alex nodded imperceptibly.

Devon looked up in time to see Wolf's retreating back. "Your boss is new," he commented. "Showed up a few days before you did."

Alex snorted. "Trust me, Devon, that guy's not my boss."

"'Course he's not." Devon grinned. "But that's what we call the corrections officer around here. It's a backwards abbreviation—stands for 'sorry sons of bitches'."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Creative."

"Yeah." Devon grimaced. "Your boss really flat-weeded you this morning. I was watching the whole thing—he didn't even give you any warning. I don't know how they get away with some of the stuff that goes on here. I think they forget—we're all people. All human. Not just means to an end."

Alex nodded thoughtfully. For the son of a criminal who wanted to cause a planet-wide blackout, Devon was surprisingly articulate. "If everyone agreed with you, Devon, the world would be a little better."

Devon took a bite of chicken. Then he smiled. "I knew it when I first saw you, Jake. We're on the same page. I think we're going to be friends. Wouldn't you agree?"

Alex forced himself to return the smile. "Absolutely."

Devon's comment seemed odd, especially since an important part of Alex's mission had been to befriend Devon. This was too easy—almost suspiciously easy. But before Alex could say anything, a shrill alarm split the air. Immediately, the chatter reached a crescendo as the inmates wrapped up their conversations and stuffed food into their mouths and their sleeves.

"Grab whatever food you want," Devon advised Alex, hiding a few brownies in a napkin. "You'll get hungry later."

Alex picked up his own brownie, which he hadn't touched yet. "Um—won't the guards wonder how we managed to whip up a batch of brownies in our prison cells?"

"Nah. Silent agreement—they let us take all the food we want, and we agree not to smuggle out any weapons." Devon smirked slightly. "I'm not saying we always uphold our end of the bargain, but—"

"Stealing food, Holt?"

Wolf had emerged from the crowd; he folded his muscular arms and tapped his foot impatiently.

"I don't think he's heard the silent agreement yet," Alex muttered, and Devon snickered.

"Give me the brownie," Wolf snapped. He tore the dessert from Alex's hand and promptly took a bite.

"Take it easy, boss. It's chocolate, not love."

Wolf grabbed Alex by the arm and pulled him into the throng heading back toward the cellblock. "Fuck off, Cu—kid."

Alex raised his eyebrows sarcastically at the SAS man—_that's the second time you've nearly slipped up with the codename, Wolf. Maybe you're not cut out for this undercover stuff. _Then he found himself back in the familiar corridor of bare lights and metal bars. Devon's own cell was further down the corridor, and the pale boy gave him a quick wave before he disappeared into the crowd.

"That was him?" Wolf muttered out of the side of his mouth.

Alex stared at him, frankly shocked. "What do you think?"

"I just wanted to be sure."

"Well, next time I'll be sure to tape a sign to his forehead."

Wolf's lip twitched, with either amusement or annoyance--perhaps both. He unlocked Alex's cell door. "Get in there, Holt."

Alex stepped inside the cell and heard the door rattle shut behind him. Quietly, he sat down on his bed and slipped the plastic knife from his pocket to beneath his pillow

"What was that?" Wolf said suspicously.

Alex looked blankly at him. "What was what?" He was beginning to wonder if Wolf was on his side or not.

Before Wolf could reply, the wall speakers crackled, and Alex heard the warden's cool voice: "All inmates signed up for Creative Expressions will now report to the Workshop."

Alex shot to his feet again, startled. All up and down the corridor, inmates were forming lines and shuffling in the opposite direction, toward somewhere Alex hadn't seen yet. "Catch a pair!" one of the guards hollered, and the inmates stumbled into sloppy rows of two. Further down the corridor, Alex caught a glimpse of Devon's thin pale frame and jet-black hair before the boy disappeared off to wherever this bloody Creative Expressions hours was.

"Hey!" Alex pounded on the bars. "Where're they all going?"

"Um—Creative Expressions," Wolf said.

"That's very helpful."

Wolf rubbed his forehead wearily. This undercover prison gig was already getting old. "Look, kid," he said. "You were given a survey to fill out, and you didn't circle that part, so you're not allowed to go."

"But—" Alex looked frantically up and down the corridor. All of the neighboring cells were empty. "But I didn't realize so many of the other cons would go."

"Aw, feeling left out?" Wolf smirked. "You can sign up for this Creative thing next week. For now, just sit down and shut up."

"But—"

"Shut your mouth. I mean it, Holt. No talking in the blocks, remember?"

Alex glared mutinously. Creative Expressions was an invaluable opportunity—it would allow him to continue talking with Devon and to scope the prison for possible hiding places. But Wolf was so intent on keeping his cover that he really was acting like a prison guard, following the bloody rules.

Then something clicked in Alex's head. The rules. Wolf had to follow them.

"No talking?" Alex said, flopping back onto his bed. "Brilliant. That means YELLING shouldn't be a problem, right?"

Wolf looked angrily up and down the corridor. Most of the cells were empty, but a few convicts had stayed behind. "Shut up, kid."

"Why? Afraid I'll say something you don't understand?"

Wolf stared at him. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Exactly."

Wolf blinked. He couldn't quite believe that Cub, the only teenager to ever survive Brecon Beacons and earn an inkling of Wolf's grudging respect, was acting quite so immature. "Are you calling me stupid, kid?"

"Of course not, _Clyde_," Alex said, not bothering to lower his voice. "I wouldn't want to offend any stupid people who happen to be listening."

"Oh," Wolf said, arching his eyebrows—there was some game being played here, but he couldn't figure out what it was. He decided, therefore, to play along. "_I'm_ stupid, am I, Holt?"

"You're worse than stupid," Alex said solemnly. "You are robbing a village somewhere of its idiot. Perhaps you ought to go back home—if you can remember the way."

"Okay, you're dead now," Wolf growled—and, true to prison protocol for dealing with a disorderly inmate, he unlocked the cell door and reached for his billy club.

Alex ducked past Wolf faster than the man could blink. "Thanks," he said, and started down the corridor.

"Hold it!" Wolf cringed as his own deep voice boomed up and down the cellblock. "Hold it," he repeated, just above a whisper. "You can't just—just go running off, Cub." He flinched. "Kid. Damn it!"

Alex tried not to laugh. "Don't worry," he whispered. "Just wait here, so you can let me back in when I get back."

"CUB!" Wolf mouthed furiously.

Alex turned away, and before Wolf could tell him how reckless he was, before he could grab the kid by the arm and throw him back into the bloody cell, Alex had run the length of the corridor and disappeared around the corner.

"Damn it," Wolf muttered, wetting his lips.

He understood, of course, that Cub wanted to follow Devon to this Creative Expressions bullshit. And maybe it would work out. Maybe Cub would manage to find what he was looking for, and this whole mission would be closed with record speed. But Wolf knew that the kid would face serious consequences if he were caught wandering the halls. The warden loved the rules—and their punishments.

Wolf paced restlessly, checked his watch every few minutes, and swore never to work with a teenager again.

**I'm not too sure about this chapter...please review and let me know what you thought! And now, a round of applause for all the kind and thoughtful reviewers! :) There were a few too many for me to post on here, but I promise I'll send a reply to everyone as soon as I have time. I hope you understand...this has been a very crazy week. Thanks all!  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Once again, we have a chapter that was written between 12 and 4am. :) Enjoy!  
**

Alex remembered, when he was ten years old, the first time he tried to sneak out of school. He had slipped quietly out of the classroom after role call, and he had tiptoed toward the side exit. At a corner, he had peeked his head into the next corridor, very cautiously—and, of course, the hall monitor saw him acting like bloody James Bond and escorted him down to the office, probably having a good, silent chuckle. Ian was called, of course. Fifteen minutes later, he and Alex were sitting in the school's main office, staring at the headmaster's empty chair.

"I'm surprised, Alex," Ian said.

Alex shrugged, his eyes lowered. He and Ian sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to each tick of the clock, studying the dirty tile floor.

"What happened?" Ian asked finally.

"I didn't think they'd catch me," Alex said honestly. "I was being as sneaky as I could."

At that, Ian smiled slightly. "Sneaky?"

Alex nodded seriously.

"What seems more suspicious to you, Alex? The person who skulks around in the shadows and looks constantly over his shoulder—or the person who acts like he belongs?"

The answer was so obvious that Alex didn't bother to say it. Ian's smile faded.

"There's no easier way to get caught than acting like you expect to be," he said quietly.

Now, in the prison corridors, Alex took Ian's advice to heart. He walked fast, but not too fast, acting as though he had a specific destination in mind. A few prisoners watched through the bars, their eyes burning into him, but Alex kept walking and never looked back. Some of the prisoners were probably debating whether or not to raise the alarm—they might be rewarded for it, after all. But before any of the prisoners could decide, Alex would be gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

Within seconds, he had reached the wall of steel grating that separated D Block from the rest of the prison. There was a small gap between the gate and the ceiling; Alex scanned quickly for any guards, and then he climbed the gate, slid sideways through the opening, and climbed back down. Five feet above the ground, he jumped to the concrete.

Then Alex's stomach dropped—a guard had just turned the corner up ahead. The man was black, average height, and slightly overweight. He didn't appear in any great hurry, but then he saw Alex and did a double take.

"Oy, you!" he bellowed, reaching for his baton. "What are you—?"

"I'm glad you're here," Alex said gratefully, before the guard could finish his sentence. "I was heading to that Creative Expressions thing, and I lost the group when I stopped to tie my shoe."

"That so?"

Alex shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "Yeah. Which way should I go?"

"Um—" The guard tucked the baton back into his belt, looking awkward. "I—I 'm not sure exactly—"

"You don't know where it is?" Alex surmised, staring incredulously at him.

The guard huffed slightly. " I usually just patrol the corridors. I can't be expected to know where everything it is."

"No," Alex agreed. "You only work here."

"Listen, kid—you watch your tongue, or I will escort you back to your—"

"I'd love to go back to my cell," Alex interrupted calmly. "But I don't want to get caught up in any trouble. There's a bloody _riot_ down in D Block. Or hadn't you noticed?"

A muscle jumped in the guard's jaw. He ran past Alex and scrambled to unlock the gate with one hand, reaching for his radio with the other. When he had the gate open, he hurried a few paces into D Block—

And Alex didn't wait around to see what would happen next. He sprinted the length of the corridor and skidded around the corner. This was another lesson Ian had taught him: if you're caught, you're caught. Don't act guilty. Direct the conversation, divert the guard's attention, and remove yourself from the situation as quickly as possible. So far, Ian seemed to have known what he was talking about.

The next hallway was a smaller cellblock—the C Block, according to the sign on the wall. There were three tiers of cells, with narrow catwalks running along the two upper levels. Alex could just see the tail end of the Creative Expressions group up ahead; he jogged forward, hoping to join the end of the line of inmates, but then he skidded to a stop.

Oh, shit.

The warden had just stepped into the corridor.

Alex flung himself sideways, into the shadows beneath the catwalks, and as soon as he was sure that the warden wasn't looking, he jumped as high as he could. His fingers just caught the edge of the metal catwalk. From there, he pulled himself up, slipped beneath the railing, and lay flat on his stomach on the three-foot wide beam. The whole maneuver had taken about two seconds.

"What the fuck you doing," someone muttered.

Alex glanced to his right, and resisted the urge to laugh from pure exasperation. Of course, with almost all of the inmates gone for Creative Expressions, Alex had to end up next to the one inmate who had opted to stay behind. The guy was staring with a blank expression.

"Don't say anything," Alex said.

"Whatever," the inmate mumbled.

The warden passed beneath Alex. All he could see of her was her black ballerina bun and her slender shoulders—she was talking in low tones with one of the guards.

". . . Thin Lizzy, two days from now . . . somebody on the inside . . . tighten security."

The guard stopped walking. "Thin Lizzy?"

"Yes."

"In—in two days?"

Alex heard the warden laugh softly, and utterly without humor. "For the love of God, officer, don't . . . "

The voices drifted out of range. It was tempting to stay and listen, but the warden was moving on, and Alex wanted to move in the opposite direction. He crawled forward until he reached the end of the catwalk. Then he dropped to the ground and turned the corner.

There it was. A plain wooden door. A small window stenciled with "CE." Inside, in a slanted room the size of an amphitheater, each inmate was painting at an easel. They each had their own paintbrush and a rectangle-shaped trough of different colored paint, and there was a general mumble of chatter—whatever Alex had expected to see, it wasn't this.

Devon was near the front of the room. He had blotched his easel with dark reds, pale greens, and a pale, sepulchral gray. It took Alex a few seconds to see the shapes—a pale, carnivale-style mask in the center of the canvas, and the other colors swelling around it.

There were a few empty easels in Devon's row, near the aisle. Alex strode calmly into the room, ignoring the hostile stares of the inmates and the guards—once he reached the easel, he dipped his brush into the thick black paint at the far end of the paint trough.

"Jake," Devon said, nodding.

Alex nodded back. "Nice painting."

Devon looked at his own work, and a small smile played around his lips. "Thanks." He added another smear of red. "Macbeth, you know."

"Nah," Alex said. "Never made it that far in school."

"That's a bloody shame," Devon said, adding Venetian-style trim to the mask. "It's a brilliant play. Duplicity everywhere. Double meanings, twists, people who think they can control fate—but the most farfetched prophecies always manage to come true in the end."

"So that explains the mask," Alex said, making the first brushstroke on his own easel. "What about the other colors?"

Again, Devon smiled. "Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood from my hand?" he recited. "No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the red one green."

_Green one red, _Alex almost corrected. "How do you know all that?" he asked instead.

"My dad tutored me for most of my life." Another careful stroke. "He taught me most of what he knows."

"Yeah?" Alex raised an eyebrow. "So you and your dad are pretty close?"

"We're all each other's got," Devon said matter-of-factly. He squinted as his painting. "It needs something, I think."

"A stronger red," Alex suggested.

Devon looked sideways at him. "Thanks, Jake."

"Don't mention it."

The pale boy dipped his hands into the paint and smeared two thick, red handprints across the green sea. Alex, meanwhile, painted most of his canvas black. He left one white rectangle, slightly off-center, and painted vertical black lines from the top of the window to the bottom.

Devon watched with an inscrutable expression. "Prison bars?"

Alex shrugged. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I guess people like us—criminals, I mean—I guess we should get used to this picture. Wouldn't you agree?"

Devon's expression flickered for a moment, but then he simply shrugged and returned to his own painting. If he recognized his own words being thrown back at him, he didn't show it.

"You know," he said casually, wiping the red paint onto his white shirt, "halfway through Creative Expressions, the warden usually does a head count in the blocks. Just to make sure everybody's where they're supposed to be."

Alex almost dropped his paintbrush. "You—what makes you think I'm not supposed to be here?"

Devon shrugged again. "I don't know. I'm just making conversation."

"Right." Alex rubbed the handle of the paintbrush with his shirt—_wiping off fingerprints? Talk about paranoia—_and then he walked quickly toward the exit.

"You think you're going somewhere?" the guard said, with a very ugly sneer.

"Toilet," Alex said, reaching for the doorknob.

"Your name?"

"Craig."

"Well, Craig. Two's company."

The guard walked with Alex into the corridor, one hand resting on his baton, as though he thought Alex was about to make a run for it—which, in fact, Alex was seriously considering. They came to a single restroom, concrete and tiny—Alex stepped inside and locked the door behind him, and the guard waited outside.

"Now what?" Alex muttered.

He looked around. There was a vent near the ceiling, but it was about as spacious as a water pipe. He felt like he was ten-years-old again, peeking around the corner and staring straight into the eyes of the strictest teacher in school. He stared at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror—a white tense face, messy blonde hair, uneasy brown eyes. He didn't even want to contemplate what would happen if the warden looked into his cell and didn't see that face.

It couldn't happen. With no other alternative, Alex quietly unlocked the bathroom door. Then he slammed it open as hard as he could.

The guard, who had been standing too close, was sent reeling face-first into the wall—Alex jumped out into the corridor, grabbed the man from behind, and slammed his head once more against the concrete. The man dropped like a stone in a blood-red lake.

Craig would be in trouble in an hour or so.

Alex sprinted in the direction of the D Block, sticking close to the walls. When he reached the C Block, he jumped again and pulled himself up onto the second-tier catwalk—the warden was still there, looking into each cell, while the guard marked off each inmate's presence on a clipboard.

The warden had almost reached the corridor that led to the D Block. Alex crawled faster; the catwalk swayed slightly beneath him, and he prayed that the five foot four woman wouldn't look up.

"James Green," the warden said crisply, looking into an occupied cell on the first tier.

"Present, Warden."

The guard made a mark on his clipboard. "Still too good for a little artsy-fartsy stuff, Green?" he sneered.

"Officer," the warden said coolly.

Alex scooted forward, very slowly and carefully. He was almost directly above her now.

"Mr. Green has every right to sit and rot in his cell if he so desires." The warden looked closely at James. "He's already begun the rotting part, I daresay."

The prisoner mumbled something under his breath.

"Carry on, Mr. Green."

The warden strode past the next few empty cells, leaving Alex far behind her.

Furious with himself, Alex increased his pace. He had to beat the warden to the D block, or, aside from the fact that he would get to learn what discipline was really like at this prison, Wolf would never let him live it down.

At the end of the C Block, the warden and the guard had paused for a moment. Alex drew level to them just as the guard was tallying the marks on the clipboard.

"C Block all accounted for," he said.

"Good." The warden sighed. "It could be any one of them. All the informers know about Thin Lizzy—God, do they know it. It's their bloody bedtime story. But none of them seem to know who planned the bloody thing."

The guard shifted his weight. "We'll be ready for it, Warden."

"We better be." The warden sighed. "I have a suspicion."

"Who?"

"The new kid. The one from London Correctional."

"Him." The guard suddenly sounded dangerous. "The kid who started the fight at breakfast."

"That's the one. Seems suspicious that, four days after he shows up, Thin Lizzy is set to go. He could be the outside help that the informer was talking about."

"I don't like him," the guard growled.

The warden shook her head. "Don't be foolish, officer. You can't allow yourself to like or dislike any of them. It gets in the way of the job."

"All the same, I can't stand the little fucker."

Alex had heard enough. He tuned the corner, crawled a safe distance down the next hallway—and then jumped and hit the ground running. At the end of the corridor, the D Block gate was still locked, but Alex scaled the gate and slipped once again through the narrow opening, and then he was running again, flying down the near-empty D Block with singular focus, as though there was a target at the end.

Wolf was pacing in front of Alex's cell. He looked up as soon as he heard footsteps, and his dark eyes fell upon on Alex with a peculiar blend of relief and hatred. "Hurry the fuck up, Holt," he hissed, searching through his key ring with shaking hands.

"Well done," Alex panted, skidding to a stop along the concrete floor. "You've been practicing with remembering the code names, haven't you?"

"Shut up," Wolf said, his voice cracking like a gunshot in the air; he turned the key in the lock, wrenched the cell door open, and literally threw Alex inside. Alex landed on the concrete, breaking the fall with his hands; behind him, he heard the bars rattle shut.

Seconds later, before Alex had even caught his breath, he heard the warden's voice at the end of the block.

"D Block! Prepare for count!"

"Too fucking close," Wolf hissed, rubbing his forehead. "This isn't a joke, kid. You get caught, there's not much direct action I can take."

"But you're supposed to keep me safe, aren' t you?" Alex asked innocently.

Wolf shook his head. "I'm supposed to keep you from getting killed. There's a difference."

Alex sat down on his bed, listening to his heart gradually slow to its normal pace. "Don't worry. I'm not used to relying on other people, so any help that you give me will come as a pleasant surprise."

Without warning, Wolf grabbed his black metal baton and rattled the bars of Alex's cell. "Shut your mouth, Holt. This is the last time I'll tell you."

His guard mask had slipped back into place, and not a moment too soon. Seconds later, the warden and the other guard stepped up to Alex's cell.

"Jacob Holt," the warden said crisply.

"Yeah?" Alex said coolly, looking up at her.

"It's a routine head count," Wolf explained, folding his arms. "Get on your feet when the warden addresses you, Holt. And I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut."

Alex stood reluctantly. The warden studied him closely.

"What do you think, Holt? Finding the accommodations suitable?"

Alex shrugged, apathetic.

"You have permission to speak," the warden added.

Again, Alex shrugged. "But I have nothing to say."

"Perhaps we can seek to change that," the warden said, smiling delicately. "On your survey, you indicated no desire to—ah—to I-N-F-O-R-M." She whispered each word as though she was spelling out some dirty swearword. "But if you change your mind, there will be privileges. You might like this place a little better." She paused. "What if I—?"

"No," Alex said simply.

The warden stepped closer, so that her face was inches from the bars. Vertical shadows fell across her prematurely lined skin.

"I'm giving you a free pass here, Mr. Holt," she whispered.

"Can I exchange that for a get-out-of-jail free card?"

The warden blinked, and the guard lunged forward as though he might like to reach through the bars and strangle Alex to death—Wolf caught the man by the arm and pulled him roughly back.

"Don't take everything so personally," Wolf advised.

The guard glared. "You've been here a week. What the ruddy hell do you know?"

"I know that this kid likes to play mind games," Wolf said flatly. "I know that he'll act as cavalier as he wants, and there's not much that any of us can do about it—except to beat the shit out of him, which I definitely wouldn't mind implementing into my daily routine." He grinned and glanced into the cell, his eyes darker than Alex had ever seen them. "But I also know that this kid has got steel bars, razor wire, and the whole bloody ocean between him and freedom. So it doesn't bother me one bit when he tries to act clever."

Alex glared sullenly, his arms folded. It was all he could do not to stick his tongue out.

Both the guard and the warden looked somewhat appeased. "Keep it up," the warden said softly, nodding at Wolf, and then she and the guard moved on to the next cell.

As soon as they were a safe distance away, Alex raised an eyebrow at Wolf.

"That was quite good."

Wolf grinned, a bit reluctantly. "For the record, I didn't know what the hell I was talking about. Improvisation usually works best."

Alex tried not to laugh. "Are you sure? I can definitely see you rehearsing that speech, over and over, the whole time I was gone."

Wolf shook his head. "The whole time you were gone, I was thinking up the best way to kill you. And hoping I'd still have the chance." He folded his muscular arms. "I'm astounded that you're not in solitary right now, chained to the wall. How the hell did they not catch you?"

"When I was ten, I got caught trying to sneak out of school," Alex explained, not quite sure why he was telling Wolf this. It was just on his mind.

"Well, congratulations."

"After that, my uncle taught me, you know, the proper way to sneak. He wanted to make sure I wouldn't get caught again."

Wolf chuckled. "The proper way to sneak? You're not serious, Cub."

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't."

"Your uncle must've been pretty angry when he heard that you were trying to cut school," Wolf remarked.

Alex grinned ruefully. "Actually, he was the one who told me to do it."

He could tell Wolf didn't believe him. Then again, Wolf's childhood probably hadn't been a fourteen-year lesson in undercover operations. Alex lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. When the other inmates returned, he didn't glance up. When the strange hissing sounds started up again, he ignored them.

His mind was working like a two-way street. First, what was "Thin Lizzy," and why did the warden suspect Alex?

Second—where the hell was that bloody flash drive?

**I loved writing this chapter...although I was mostly running on caffeine by the time I finished. PLEASE review and let me know what you think! **

**A million thanks to Jusmine, swabloo, Mad Mogg, sheluby94dreamer, Lady Zarobiti, Emmy-Loo, rid3r chick, PleiadesWolfe, Sun Knight, Hayden Blossom, Nylah, amitai, Von, and ifisher, who all reviewed on the last chapter. Like last time, I'll respond to all of you amazing people in private messages--****at the moment I'm late for a jazz night at my old high school. Haven't played a note of jazz music since I graduated last year. This should be...interesting. xX **


	7. Chapter 7

**New chapter...finally. I promise, I wrote it as fast as possible! Nice and long, too. It might be sort of filler (I'm not really sure), but at the same time, a lot of stuff happens.  
**

**Disclaimer: Alex Rider is not mine. **

The next morning, when Alex dropped into his seat at Devon's breakfast table, he immediately noticed a somberness that hadn't been there the day before.

"Hey," Alex said slowly. "What's wrong?"

The others picked at their food, looking as though one of their best friends had dropped off the face of the earth. When Alex did a quick mental count, he realized that this wasn't too far from the truth. Devon was there, and so were ginger-haired Reid and tall, dark Youssef. But one chair was empty.

"Where's Jess?" Alex said slowly, glancing around the mess hall.

"He's in the hole," Reid said flatly, stabbing his French toast. "For questioning."

A collective grimace passed around the group, and Youssef shook his head, a very ugly expression on his face.

"Jess won't answer their questions," Devon said, his voice subdued. "He probably won't know the answers, anyway. But they'll use other methods to make him talk."

"And don't think the warden gives a shit about the law," Reid added. "There's no law here except her own."

"I believe that," Alex said grimly, thinking of his own first-day swim.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Alex felt as though the group really was mourning a lost comrade, and ought to be wearing black crepe and singing a requiem. After a few minutes, something occurred to him, and he glanced up.

"Does anybody know _why _they're questioning Jess?"

Reid pointed at the opposite end of the mess hall.

"Mack," he snarled. "The bloody traitor. The jumped-up, syphilitic weasel."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Mack? The guy who was sitting here yesterday?"

"That's the one." Reid laughed humorlessly. "He was dry-snitching."

"Dry-snitching?" Alex repeated slowly.

"He was blabbing about shit that we're not allowed to talk about, at the top of his bloody voice, with about a dozen guards around." Reid looked disgusted. "And he was asking Jess about it, as if Jess had any fucking idea. It's a classic trick."

Alex shook his head with real disgust. "What a bloody—"

"We all fucking know it," Reid said flatly.

Alex thought of Mack, the greasy-haired convict with the rich, upturned nose, and felt a surge of dislike. _They're all criminals, _he reminded himself. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have felt any sympathy for a guy like Jess. But these kids were just that—_kids. _Despite their rap sheets and their prison sentences, they still deserved basic human rights—didn't they?

Then Alex shook his head. He would worry about prison ethics later. "What was Mack asking Jess about?" he asked, very quietly. "What weren't the guards supposed to hear?"

The others exchanged glances again.

"We—shouldn't say it."

"Come on," Alex said, with a careful mix of impatience and worry. "I want to know. I _need_ to know. Otherwise, what if I make the same mistake?"

He watched the wheels turn behind their hardened eyes, and he waited impatiently, counting the seconds. _Three, four, five_—he looked from Reid to Devon, raising an eyebrow slightly. _Don't push them—you're just curious—_he reached to take a sip of orange juice.

Then he paused.

"Does this have something to do with Thin Lizzy?"

The reaction at the breakfast table was immediate and, in Alex's opinion, slightly melodramatic—Reid choked on his cereal and pounded on his own back, Youssef jerked as though he'd been electrocuted, and Devon missed his mouth with his fork.

"Don't say that again," he said in a low voice.

"What, Thin Liz—"

"_Shh_," Devon hissed. "Yes, that."

Alex nodded quickly. "Okay. Um—I think I missed something. Thin Lizzy is a band, right?"

"You-Know-What," Reid said, very softly, "is a code name. It's been floating around the prison for more than a month."

"A code name," Alex repeated—and it was his turn to smirk. "You mean with, like, secret agents and radios and stuff like that?"

Reid and Youssef rolled their eyes again.

"Code isn't just for spies, Jake," Devon said. "We need some way to communicate without the guards understanding every word."

"But what does Thin—" Alex earned glares from all of them. "Sorry. I mean, what does—what does the code phrase mean?"

Reid glanced around. "Think about it, Jake."

"Think about what?"

"Well, you've listened to some Thin Lizzy, haven't you? They're a bloody wicked rock band."

Alex shrugged. "Yeah, I've listened to them. A little."

"Can you name a few of their songs?"

Alex thought back to the rock CDs that Jack used to blare in the house while she was cleaning, cooking breakfast, taking a bubble bath—or, basically, when she was doing anything.

"The Boys are Back in Town," he said, counting each song off on his hands. "Whiskey in a Jar. Emerald. Jailbreak—"

He broke off suddenly and stared at them. They nodded slowly, their eyes sparkling.

"Jailbreak," Alex repeated. "So that's Thin Lizzy? It's a break-out scheme?"

The others nodded again, looking pleased that the new kid had worked most of it out for himself—if only they knew how carefully he planned his every word. "What kind of break-out?" Alex asked.

"No one is sure of the details," Youssef said, his dark face breaking into a rare smile at the excitement glittering in Alex's eyes. "According to the rumors, somebody is going to come from the outside and lead a massive-scale escape."

"Like a riot?" Alex said slowly.

"Not a riot, exactly," Reid said thoughtfully. "More organized."

"It's the stuff of legend, Jake," Devon said, meeting Alex's eyes—and once again, Alex wondered if the pale boy knew more than he was letting on. "The guards are terrified—they try not to show it, but that only makes it more obvious." Devon sighed. "That's why security's been so tight lately. Thin Lizzy is set to happen."

"When?"

Devon looked seriously at Alex. "The first Wednesday of this month."

"What?" Alex said, surprised. "But—"

"Yeah. It's happening tomorrow." Devon paused. "According to the rumors, anyway."

Reid grinned crookedly. "Imagine if this shit actually goes down, huh, Jake? You'll break out on your fourth day here. You couldn't have timed this better, eh?"

Alex nodded, forcing a smile. When it came to breaking out of the prison, it was true—he couldn't have timed it better.

But where his mission was concerned, he couldn't have timed it worse.

ARARAR

After breakfast, the forty convicts in the D Block were scheduled to attend one of their twice-weekly lessons. Alex hadn't known that there would be schoolwork at the prison, but now that he thought about it, the lessons made sense—literature, law and government, and basic science. Just enough to distract the convicts from their own dismal situations--a mild opiate, of sorts.

The classroom was cold, blank, and gray—Alex thought immediately of Alan Blunt and smirked to himself. He sat with Devon, Reid, and Youssef in the back left corner of the classroom. When the 'teacher' strode up the center aisle, Alex recognized him immediately. It was the guard who had been patrolling the cellblocks with the warden the previous night, the same guard who had heard the warden's suspicions about a certain Jacob Holt. _This_, Alex thought grimly, _should be interesting._

"Take your seats," the guard said, standing square-shouldered in front of the chalkboard. "We have a first-time student today. Holt, stand up."

Alex stood calmly, and forty intense pairs of eyes stared back at him.

"How far did you get in school?" the guard barked, sounding very much like an English teacher pretending to be a drill sergeant.

Alex thought back to the file on Jacob Holt. "Not very far, sir."

"Can you read?"

"Yes."

"Right." The guard folded his arms. "All classes maintain a strict silence policy. From the moment I set foot in this room until the moment you leave, your mouth stays shut. The only exception is if you raise your hand and I call on you. There will be severe penalties for infractions, and no rewards for good behavior. Clear?"

Alex nodded.

"Sit down."

Alex sat, and the teacher began his lesson. "Last time, you were all set to read chapter nine."

There was a quiet rustle throughout the classroom as each student pulled out an old copy of _Lord of the Flies_. When the teacher turned to write something on the chalkboard, most of the cons closed their eyes and buried their heads in their hands.

"The boys lose themselves in their frantic chant," the teacher said, pretending as though the class full of convicts was actually listening. "They kill Simon. They murder him with their bare hands, scratching, biting, tearing." He looked around the classroom. "What does this tell us?"

Mack raised his hand. "It tells us that Simon was fucking retarded."

The teacher took a deep breath, fighting for patience. "Why's that?"

Mack shrugged. "He jumped out in the dark and crawled around like a bloody animal. He deserved what he got."

The teacher sighed, rubbing his forehead. "That's one interpretation." He paced the front of the room. "Now that Ralph's leadership has been challenged, a person is dead. What do you think about that?"

At this, Devon's hand shot up. "I know what you _want _us to think," he said, rather coolly. "You want us to think that, in order for society to function, there must be laws and leaders. You want us to argue in favor of society. But I couldn't help but notice this passage." He opened his book to a marked page and read aloud: "'A circling movement developed and a chant. Piggy and Ralph, under the threat of the sky, found themselves eager to take a place in this demented but partly secure society.'"

Alex looked at the guard who was serving as teacher. A muscle twitched in the man's jaw. "An interesting few sentences. But they're not really important, are they?"

Devon raised his hand again, but the teacher shook his head. "You've spoken enough, Bartoy. Give one of your classmates a chance to answer." The man's eyes landed on Alex, and he smirked slightly. "Holt. Take a stab at it."

"At what, sir?" Alex said.

The guard smirked again. "Do you agree with the idea that it is the breakdown of society that causes the boys to commit murder? Or do you think the passage that Devon read aloud invites a different approach?"

Most of the class was asleep. Those few that had been paying attention were blinking rapidly, struggling to decipher the teacher's long string of words. Alex glanced at Devon before answering.

"I haven't read this book. But from what I've heard, it sounds as though society was what caused this murder in the first place."

The teacher raised an eyebrow. "_Really._"

Alex shrugged. "Well, it sounds like the circle is supposed to be a—a symbol of society, I guess. These Ralph and Piggy kids want to join in, because the circle makes them feel secure."

Beside Alex, Devon was nodding slowly.

"If that's true," Alex continued steadily, "this Simon person was killed because he was an outsider. He wasn't part of the circle." He paused, glancing again at Devon. "Society didn't approve."

Devon smiled slightly. Alex looked again at the teacher, who scowled and grabbed a piece of chalk. The lecture continued, but, as before, hardly anyone was listening. Devon scribbled something onto a piece of paper and pushed it across his desk toward Alex, who could just barely read the one tiny word:

_Thanks._

Alex wanted to grin, or perhaps even pump his first in the air. Instead, he nodded slightly and kept his face blank. The rest of the class was spent in silence, with most of the convicts daydreaming or drooling on their desks. Finally, when the other students were filing out, the teacher--i.e. guard--stepped up next to Alex.

"Holt," he barked.

"Yes, sir," Alex said quietly, standing up.

"You grew up on the street, didn't you?"

"I spent some time in an orphanage," Alex said shortly. "But mostly on the street, yeah."

"Did you attend school?"

"Yeah, every day," Alex said flatly. "Class was held in a cardboard box under the Chelsea Bridge, next to the river. We studied old newspapers and sat at desks made of garbage." He paused and smiled innocently. "Sir."

The guard's eyes darkened, and for a moment Alex thought he had gone a step too far. Then the guard sighed.

"It was nice to hear someone make a decent argument, for once."

"Happy to help," Alex said.

The guard hesitated. "I have to admit, I'm curious about how you're able to hear just a few snatches of book summary and make a convincing argument about it. Have you read _Lord of the Flies _before?"

"No, sir."

"Not a big reader, huh?" The guard grinned. "What are you into, then?"

"What am I into?" Alex repeated slowly.

"Yeah. Like, you know, sports? Music? Rock 'n' roll, perhaps?"

Alex shook his head, suddenly realizing why the guard had been so keen to talk to him. "Nothing, sir," he repeated, a bit more coldly. This guard was essentially doing to Alex what Alex was doing to Devon: gaining his trust and betraying him with it. Alex turned away without another word and joined the other convicts as they flooded out into the corridor.

"What'd the teach need?" Reid muttered as Alex caught up to him.

Alex shrugged. "I don't know. A life. A set of testicles, maybe."

Reid grinned and clapped Alex on the shoulder. "Y'know, if we had to trade Mack for you, I'd say we got the better end of the deal."

The convicts formed two lines and stood in pairs, waiting to be counted before heading back to the cellblocks. The guards started at the opposite end of the line.

"Two—four—six—eight—"

Suddenly, Alex heard a familiar voice. Mack and Craig were standing only a few pairs away, speaking in low half-whispers. Unfortunately, their words were all too audible.

"So you had to do a little dry snitching," Craig was muttering to Mack. "Don't get so worked up over it."

"But I wasn't snitching! I didn't mean to—"

"Of course you meant to, Mack. Don't be so bloody stupid. I've been doing it for years, and—"

"And look where it's gotten you," Reid interrupted loudly.

Craig and Mack both spun around, startled to find Alex and Reid glaring at them. Then Craig laughed.

"Where do you bloody think it's gotten me? I've never been questioned, never been tortured. I have extra privileges. I have some fucking dignity."

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Reid snapped.

Craig smirked. "I don't pick fights for no reason, you know. I pick fights so that none of the greeners start to think they can run things around here."

"And so that you'll end up in solitary, safe and alone," Alex added calmly.

Reid looked sharply at him. "Stay out of it, Jake. You don't want another fight with this big weasel."

"Don't," Devon agreed quietly.

But Craig looked infuriated that Alex had even dared open his mouth. "I thought I taught this punk a lesson yesterday!"

"Hm." Alex pretended to think. "Actually, you taught me two lessons: how to talk to a moron, and how to knock a moron over. Which were you referring to?"

Craig's face was turning steadily redder, but he didn't speak. Reid shook his head.

"Sad, isn't it? Never argue with this guy, Jake. He's just a bloody cell soldier."

Craig raised his fists. "I'm not in my cell now, am I?"

A beat of silence.

Then, without warning, Reid shoved between two pairs of convicts and punched Craig in the face. His fist broke Craig's nose—everybody heard the bone-shattering CRACK—and while the big convict's eyes blurred with tears, Reid shoved him against the wall and punched him again.

"Don't be stupid!" Mack snapped, trying to pull them apart.

His efforts as good Samaritan earned him a fist to the face. Reid seemed intent upon swinging at anyone he could find. But Craig was much stronger. As soon as his eyes cleared, he grabbed Reid by the shoulders and lifted him clear off the ground.

"I'm no bloody cell soldier," he snarled.

Then, suddenly, he dropped his hold on Reid and choked helplessly. Alex had grabbed Craig from behind, twisting his left arm behind him and applying pressure to his throat. While Craig gasped, Alex twisted both his arms behind him.

"Just stop," Alex hissed, struggling to hold him.

He would have had better luck stopping a runaway train with a tree branch. Craig wrenched free and swung at Alex, who dodged and bumped into Mack. In turn, the greasy-haired convict lashed out, fueled mostly by frustration—Alex blocked the punch and twisted to avoid Craig's attack from the side.

Then, barely ten seconds after the fight started, the guards brought it to a swift end. A metal baton slammed into Alex's stomach and then into his chest, causing a throb at his heart that probably hadn't been helped by his fading bullet wound. A few feet away, two exasperated-looking guards restrained Craig, and another guard slammed his baton into the back of Mack's neck. Reid, it seemed, had escaped the guards' notice. He stood aside, hands in his pockets.

But then, without warning, the ginger-haired boy launched himself at Mack.

"Solitary isn't good enough for that bloody traitor!" he shouted, swinging at Mack with both fists.

Two guards grabbed Reid within seconds and dragged him away from Mack, whose face had turned sheet-white.

"What the fuck'samatter with you?" one of the guards growled into Reid's ear. "You were Scot free, and you had to add to the trouble?"

Reid lowered his head, his bangs falling into his eyes.

The rest of the convicts were marched back toward the D Block; Alex, Reid, Mack, and Craig were left behind with five guards. The first one, who had hit Alex with his baton, folded his arms.

"I could throw all four of you into the hole and forget about you for awhile," he said. "Cold and dark, chained to the wall—you know how it goes, don't you, Craig?"

Craig nodded quickly, and Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"But you, Craig—you use solitary as an excuse to get away from your fellow cons, who would probably like to see your guts on a stick. And you, Holt—you're new, and I'm not sure I want to toss you into solitary just yet. I'd rather keep the fear alive." He grinned. "But I think I have a suitable punishment for all four of you."

ARARAR

Through the bars, the sun was setting. Alex and Reid walked in silence, each pushing a big plastic bin on wheels. The guard unlocked the gate to the A block, and Alex and Reid stepped bravely inside to face off against the overflowing communal trashcan. It smelled interesting—something like a mix of cigarette smoke, banana peels, and vomit. Reid stared at it for a moment.

"The trash bag's overflowing. How do we tie it shut?"

The guard smirked. "Tick tock, boys. We need all the garbage out of here before lights-out."

With a sigh, Alex straightened his clear plastic glove and shoved the center of the trash, hard. The garbage crushed together, creating space, and Reid was just able to tie off the top of the trash bag and toss it into his bin.

"This is disgusting," Reid muttered.

"I think I'd rather have solitary," Alex agreed.

They walked down the corridor toward B block. Around them, the other convicts jeered and laughed. Garbage duty in the prison was avoided like the plague—there was no easier way to catch infectious diseases and go to bed feeling like a sad, misunderstood creature from the garbage dump. Secretly, however, Alex was glad for the punishment; he couldn't think of a faster way to explore the whole prison.

He and Reid gathered the trash from all the cellblocks and bathrooms. In the prison yard, where floodlights illuminated the wide blacktop, they met Craig and Mack. This second pair had been assigned to collect trash from the cafeteria, the classrooms, and basically anything left over. Their bins were much fuller, but they didn't have the same pungent, gag-inducing stench that Alex and Craig had been enjoying for the past few hours.

"Now what?" Craig grunted, his breath fogging in the cold twilight air.

The guards exchanged smirks. "Now you push the garbage out to the dumpsters, where the trash barge comes and picks it up once a week."

Craig groaned. "You mean we're not done yet?"

"Not quite."

Craig glared at Alex and Reid, who stared frostily back. Guided by the guards, the four convicts pushed their trash bins down an overgrown path that sloped over a steep hill, toward the rocky shore. Once, Reid nearly lost control of his cart; Mack, meanwhile, lost a few trash bags and had to run after them as they tumbled toward the ocean.

Finally, the boys came to an enormous dumpster perched among the rocks. It took them a good few minutes to figure out how to work the lid, and another minute to push it hard enough for it's momentum to swing it all the way open. Halfway through unloading his garbage, the lid sprang shut and pinched Craig's finger, and the con spent the next ten minutes swearing that the dumpster was haunted.

Alex finished unloading his trash bags and looked around. This side of the island was darker than the rest, visible only from one watchtower and through the barred windows along the back of the prison. There was a small inlet where ocean water twisted and smashed against the rocks—this was probably where the trash barge would dock.

"What day does the barge come?" Alex asked.

"Thursdays," the guard said brusquely. "But you'll have the same garbage duty every day of the week."

While the others groaned, Alex walked a few meters away, careful to stay within sight but out of earshot. He sat down at the edge of a rock and stared down into the dark, choppy water. Leaning over, pretending to tie his shoe, he pressed the back of the tag on his bracelet.

"Hey, Alex." Jack's words were soft, but he could understand her as clearly as if she'd been standing right next to him. "Um—I know it's the first day, and everything. I just thought I'd see how you were doing." A brief pause. "I'm locked in here. It's no big deal—Walkman, or whatever his name is, says it's just a precaution for my own safety. But it's still kind of weird." She laughed nervously. "Be careful, Alex."

Alex smiled, glad to hear Jack's voice and even gladder that she was okay. But then the tiny speaker crackled, and then Jack's voice came again, fast and high-pitched.

"I don't want to worry you, Alex. Just concentrate on your job." Pause. "But there's something wrong here. I can hear—I can hear people screaming. It sounds like screaming, anyway. I'm not sure—" She broke off suddenly. "Shit. Someone's coming."

More static—then the recording started again, in the middle of Jack's sentence. "—why here? Why not a safehouse somewhere?"

The next voice was deep and professional. Alex placed it after a few seconds as Walkman, the blonde guard who worked at MI6 headquarters. Not very astonishingly, it sounded as though the man was spouting rubbish.

"Safehouses are for those who only need shelter. If you're being kept here, it could mean one of many possibilities—you know something that could be useful to MI6, or you have information that can't leave this building until a certain mission is accomplished, or you're at high risk and being protected here for an indeterminate timespan—"

"Or they're using me to blackmail Alex."

Jack's voice was muffled, but the words were clear. Alex felt a pang of guilt. No matter what Jack said, he knew she hated being involved with MI6 at all. And now, apparently, she was locked in her room, with people screaming down the corridor and guards lying to her left and right.

"—I wish you'd eat it," Walkman was saying.

"I wish you'd tell me what the hell that screaming was all about," Jack said.

"Pipes, Miss Starbright. If you need anything else, I'll be in the corridor until two."

A thud. A pause. Then the bracelet clinked and rattled as Jack brought it closer to her lips. "I thought you might like to hear the conversation, so I hit the record button. This is messed up, Alex. Pipes don't scream like that." She sighed. "Don't freak out about this. You have enough to worry about. I'm fine—I just want to know what the hell is going on here." She sighed again. "I'll let you know if I find anything out. Be careful, Alex."

A steady click, and more static, and before Alex could wonder if the messages were finished, Jack's voice started up again.

"Hi, Alex. It's day two of my little stay in hotel hell. I just—I wanted to see how you were doing. I wanted to send you some chocolate chip cookies, but they wouldn't fit in the bracelet." She hesitated. "And I—it's no big deal, but today I asked if I could step outside for some fresh air. They refused. And they haven't contacted me in a few hours. There's just—there's something really wrong here."

That was the end of the message. Alex felt as though a rock had dropped into his stomach.

Then Jack's voice started one last time.

"Shit, shit, shit." She sounded breathless and slightly panicked. "Alex, it's me. They think I had something to do with the attempts on your life. They have no evidence. Absolutely none. But they think I did it. They think I would betray you." She laughed, a fast, bold laugh. "Don't worry, Alex. Just finish your mission and get home safely." She took a deep breath. "And no matter what they tell you, I didn't do it. I didn't do it. I would never hurt you, Alex."

The message ended. Alex stared at the bracelet around his wrist, at loss for words.

**(gasp) Jack! Oh no! I hope you didn't forget about her. Now, I love you for making it to the end of this very, very long chapter...but I'll love you even more if you REVIEW and give me some feedback. :)**

**Th****ank you so much to Hope12, lushka, sheluby94dreamer, AleksandryaGregonovitch, Jusmine, Nylah, pleiadeswolfe, ifisher, swabloo, Boo26, Mad Mogg, rid3r chick, SheWeapon1, Tasha, Crystal Roads, SakuraCa, Captain Nire, Lady Zarobiti, and Neptunian Diamond, who gave me awesome comments and feedback for the last chapter. Muchas gracias! :D**


	8. Chapter 8

**Finally, an update! (cue exhausted collapse onto keyboard)**** I owe a large chunk of this chapter to She Weapon1. Thank you! :D I planned a different means to the same end, but your shower idea works much better...and as an added bonus, Alex gets a shower scene. (grin) He's 15 in my story, and acts much older, so it's not TOO weird that I'm almost drooling...  
**

**Also, here's something I've been intending to mention. Many aspects of Stony Creek--the silence policy, the food, the sizes of the cells, and (basically) the layout--are based on my research into Alcatraz prison.  
**

**This is a disclaimer. Exciting, isn't it?**

When Walkman entered the blindingly white control room, he found the technical supervisor and two desk agents crowded around a display of flat-screen monitors. One of the agents, Roxbury, was rubbing his eyes wearily. The other, Bryce, was glaring at the screen as though he'd like to smash it repeatedly with a hammer.

Walkman blinked. "Well, aren't you guys a couple rays of bloody sunshine."

The three dark-suited men spun around, startled—they hadn't heard the door open. Then Agent Roxbury grimaced and returned his gaze to the screen.

"The girl's story is about as farfetched as Hitler in heaven, but she won't budge."

Walkman raised an eyebrow. "Really? You mean she's not jumping at the chance to confess a crime that'll have her locked up until she's eighty?"

Roxbury glanced up. "I could be wrong, but I'm sensing some derision."

Walkman shrugged. "And I'm sensing that this is your first assignment that doesn't involve a desk and a stack of papers."

"I won't dignify that with a response," Roxbury muttered, leaning back in his chair.

The techie's mouth twitched, but he remained calm and professional as he pushed a sequence of buttons on the control panel and toggled forward. The camera zoomed into Starbright's face. The woman's bright green eyes were trained stubbornly on the ceiling.

"She used to spend most of her time reading," Agent Bryce said, pacing with his hands in his pockets. "Now she just lays there. Occasionally she'll go inside the shower stall, without the water running—we've taken bets on what she actually does in there."

The other men sniggered slightly, but Walkman just scowled. "No cameras in the bathroom, I suppose?"

Roxbury shook his head. "It's a dead shame, isn't it?"

Bryce grinned ruefully. "Dead funny, I'd say. It's perfectly acceptable to 'persuade' prisoners with beatings and electroshock, but we're not allowed to spy on someone in the loo, because_ that_ would be _wrong._"

Walkman smiled reluctantly, running a hand over his hair. "You have to wonder how the higher-ups reconcile that over their morning coffee." He dropped down into a black swivel chair and crossed his arms. "Let's get down to business. Your summons said that you needed my help with Jack's interrogation."

"That's right," Roxbury said, nodding. "Starbright was asking for you yesterday. We think she trusts you. Hopefully you can get a confession out of her."

Walkman shrugged. "I'll try, but first I want to hear the interrogation tape."

Roxbury sighed, massaging his temples. "Fair enough. Press the gray button to replay the last track."

Walkman scanned the panel of knobs and switches. "Where?" "

"It's just below the stop-being-a-bloody-moron-my-job's-on-the-line button," Roxbury said, deadpan.

Walkman rolled his eyes again and stabbed the gray button. There was a crackle of static and a few seconds' silence, and then Agent Roxbury's voice issued from the speakers.

"Miss Starbright. Just a few questions, if you please."

ARARAR

Jack stared defiantly into the cold fish-eyes on the other side of the table. The man's face was quite possibly the least lively thing she'd ever seen, excluding inanimate objects—although Jack could imagine a few rocks and clods of dirt with more life in them than this MI6 drone.

"Miss Starbright," the man said, pacing with a tape recorder in hand. "Just a few questions, if you please."

"Sure," Jack said, crossing her arms. "First of all, why are you keeping me here? Second, what the hell is all that screaming? And third, would it be too much to ask for a snack?"

The man didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. "Miss Starbright, where were you precisely one week ago, when the attacks on Agent Rider began?"

Jack was so thrown by hearing Alex referred to as 'Agent Rider'—nearly as thrown as Alex had been when he heard Jack referred to as 'Jacqueline'—that she found herself floundering for words.

"I—I was just getting home from a vacation, I think."

"A vacation?" the man said, raising his eyebrows. "How did you pay for it?"

"I won a free trip to the Bahamas. A radio contest."

"What station?"

"I—God, I can't remember."

"What airline did you fly?"

"It was a private jet."

"Why didn't Alex Rider accompany you?"

"It—well, it was only a vacation for one. And Alex had school, anyway."

"I see." The agent's smirk widened. "And did you enjoy your holiday?"

"I—well, yeah. It was great. I jogged along the shore every morning and collected conch shells from the sand—it was the softest, whitest sand I've ever seen—and then I'd usually buy a mango or a pineapple or something from the little fruit stand on the beach—"

"What was the fruit stand called?" the agent interrupted.

"The Fruit Stand," Jack said, wincing as she said it.

The interrogator sneered. "I should have guessed."

"I'm telling the truth," Jack said, looking him straight in the eye. "Please believe me."

The man only shook his head. "Continue your tale, Miss Starbright."

So Jack described the gentle wash of the waves on the shore, and the four back-to-back afternoons of diving in the crystal-clear water, and her charming private cottage just up the beach—but she stopped suddenly as the interrogator's lip curled even further.

"You stayed in an empty shack on the beach?" he said, raising an eyebrow significantly.

Jack could feel her face flushing. "It was a radio contest," she stressed. "They provided me with everything, and a travel agent drove me from the landing strip to the cottage."

"What was his name?"

"I—don't know."

"Did he give you his card? His phone number?"

"I don't know," Jack repeated sharply, too embarrassed to admit that she had lost it somewhere along the way.

The agent actually laughed. He leaned over the table and looked her straight in the eye. "Miss Starbright, I'm tempted to close the book on this right now. I just need your confession. And we both know that you have clear motive and no alibi."

"Motive?" Jack repeated, her head spinning. "What does that—"

The man held the tape recorder up to her lips. "Jack Starbright, did you orchestrate the assassination attempts on Alex Rider?"

Jack stared at him, horrified. "No."

"Did you betray Rider to any terrorist organization or organizations, including Scorpia, The Angry Brigade, Al-Qaida, HAMAS, the Shining Path, the IRA—"

"No," Jack repeated vehemently.

The interrogator's eyes narrowed. "Did you have anything to do with the assassination attempts—the sniper, the bomb, and the ambush?"

"No! For the love of God—I didn't even know about the attacks until Blunt told me!" Jack's head was spinning. "You think I wanted to hurt Alex? What motive could I possibly have?"

The interrogator stared at her for a long moment, like a man scrutinizing a fly under the palm of his hand. Then he straightened up.

"Okay, Miss Starbright, we'll step back a few paces. Did you plan when you were twenty-two years old to live in England for the rest of your life?"

Jack hesitated. "No."

"And did you expect to become the sole guardian of a teenage spy who frequently disappears on missions and drags danger back to your doorstep?"

"I—" Jack blinked. "That's a loaded question. How the hell could anyone expect it?"

"A fair point," the agent said, with a cold smile of apology. "But Rider does expect you to stay and take care of him, doesn't he?"

Jack gripped the edge of the table to keep her hands from trembling. "I'm all he's got. I want to stay with him."

"Not according to this letter." The agent removed a crumpled piece of paper from inside his jacket, smoothed the creases, and slammed it onto the tabletop. "Look familiar?"

Jack skimmed the first few sentences of the letter, and her knuckles turned white.

"This is a private letter," she whispered.

"Not anymore."

She snatched it off the desktop and crumpled it in her fist.

"It's private," she repeated. "It's mine. I didn't mean what I wrote."

"Then why'd you send it?"

Jack couldn't answer. The agent stepped toward the door, looking painfully smug.

"Keep the letter, if you like. It's a copy of the original. One of many copies." He paused in the doorway. "Let us know if you start to feel more talkative."

He left, and Jack heard a solid click. She stared at the locked door for a long moment.

"Oh, shit," she muttered, wetting her lips. "Shit, shit, shit—"

She sprinted to the shower stall, ducked behind the frosted glass, and lifted the metal bracelet to her lips.

"Shit, shit, shit—"

Her words were fast and flurried. Hopefully, the bracelet's miniature speakers would distort the sound enough that Alex wouldn't hear the fear in her voice.

Then she laughed, an almost-sob. Who was she kidding? A ninety-year-old geezer with two dysfunctional hearing aids could have heard the fear in her voice.

"Shit, shit, shit—"

ARARAR

The recording whirred and clicked into silence.

"Well, shit," Walkman said, looking from one agent to the other.

"It looks bad, eh?" Roxbury said, smirking.

"It looks terrible," Walkman admitted. "I can't believe she hasn't confessed yet."

"Neither can we," Bryce said frankly. "That's why we called you."

ARARAR

Alex couldn't stop worrying about Jack.

He worried about her as he and the other convicts trooped back from garbage duty, dragging their feet. He worried about her as he brushed his teeth and stared down into his own pale reflection. He even worried about her in his sleep—his nightmare consisted of a helpless Jack being eaten alive by mutant cucumber-jellyfish with squirming, oozing tentacles, while Alex watched in horror from a metal birdcage.

The next morning, he awoke with fresh determination. He would find that flash drive. Today.

Wolf was lingering outside the bars. "Rise and shine, kid."

But Alex had already dropped to the concrete floor and started his first set of press-ups. Up and down the block, he could hear metal batons rattling against the bars and guards shouting themselves hoarse. Wolf glanced around and lowered his voice.

"The warden thinks you're involved in some secret break-out scheme."

"I know," Alex said quietly, finishing his press-ups and starting the crunches.

Wolf looked darkly through the bars. "I tried to convince her otherwise, and I think you should be okay—for now. But if you're torn between Operation Rolling Thunder and a quick blitzkrieg, I would suggest the latter."

"And I would agree," Alex said flatly. "I want to get out of here just as much as you do."

"Don't be too sure," Wolf muttered, unlocking the cell door.

Alex followed Wolf to the end of the cellblock, a scratchy towel draped over his arm. This was Jacob Holt's scheduled shower slot—the warden was very strict about cleanliness, and the guards were expected to write up any convict neglecting personal hygiene. It made Alex wonder how Mack had lasted so long without a good shampoo.

At the entrance to the communal showers, Wolf paused and smirked at Alex.

"Don't drop the soap, Cub."

"Oh, how original," Alex muttered, stalking down the tile hallway and ignoring Wolf's bark of laughter. "Really. I wouldn't have thought of that one myself."

Inside, met by a rush of cold air, he paused. The shower room looked like a subterranean cave; the glass tile was a dark mossy green, with mold and soap scum caked into the cracks. Twelve showerheads were attached to the wall, and five guys were currently standing beneath them. Alex doubted that the inmates enjoyed the communal shower arrangement, but they knew to give one another as much space as physically possible.

Alex took the showerhead in the center of the row, with empty space on either side. He draped his towel on the hook and cranked on the water. Freezing cold. A shiver zigzagged down his spine. He hadn't expected a sauna, but nor had he expected a torrent of ice.

The room was silent for a few minutes as the inmates showered and avoided any hint of dangerous eye contact. Then, quietly at first, one of the inmates at the end of the row began to sing. Alex glanced sideways. The voice was low and shaky, and the words were buried beneath the rush of water—but Alex thought he might have recognized the tune.

"Hiding low, looking right to left," the convict sang, his voice slightly stronger. "If you see us coming, I think it's best—"

Another voice joined in: "—To move away. Do you hear what I say from under my breath?"

And then, before Alex could even begin to comprehend the small mistake that had spiraled out of control, the whole shower room was belting out the words.

"TONIGHT THERE'S GONNA BE A JAILBREAK, SOMEWHERE IN THE TOWN—TONIGHT THERE'S GONNA BE A JAILBREAK, SO DON'T YOU BE AROUND!"

Alex couldn't believe it. He glared at the green-tile wall and scrubbed his hair with the prison-issue shampoo. What were these morons thinking? If there was a more efficient method of announcing the escape plan for all the guards to hear, Alex couldn't think of it. To make matters worse, what if the warden caught him with a group of convicts singing the lyrics to 'Jailbreak' at the top of their lungs?

He closed his eyes and rinsed the stale-smelling soap from his hair. The convicts were starting the second verse, and he could hear excitement building behind their hoarse voices.

"I can hear the hound dogs on my trail—all hell breaks loose, alarms and sirens wail—"

Then the singing dwindled. Alex opened his eyes. He twisted off the faucet. And, out of the corner of his eye, he saw three convicts glaring. At him.

"We noticed you weren't singing, greener," one of the convicts growled, stepping forward, apparently mindless of the fact that he was naked and covered with soapsuds. "You got a problem?"

Alex dried himself off and pulled the towel around his waist. "Yeah, a bigger one than yours."

He tried to turn away, but one of the more daring inmates grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Listen up, greener," the con hissed. "We're sailing out of here today—everybody says so—and if you're not onboard, you better jump off the bloody ship."

Alex looked calmly back at him. "Good advice. And here's a bonus: if you're sailing a pirate ship past the entire Royal Navy, don't wave the skull and crossbones around."

They stared at him. "What?"

Alex sighed. "Forget it." _Morons._

He grabbed his stack of clothes and turned again to leave. This time, three convicts were blocking his path. They exchanged nervous glances, and then one of them spoke up.

"That's a bullet wound."

Alex's heart plummeted. _Shit._

"No, it's not," he said, trying to sound normal.

"It is," the guy insisted. "I'm sure of it."

And just like that, the six convicts in the shower room were staring at the scar on Alex's chest as though they'd just spotted the Holy Grail atop the Golden Fleece. Alex's pulse quickened. He knew his mistake and knew how this exchange would end—but the knowledge was about as helpful as remembering the parachute after the jump.

"You should be dead," one of the cons stated.

"No, I shouldn't," Alex said brusquely, pulling his white tank-top over his head. "It was a bicycle accident."

"What, a .50 caliber sniper bicycle?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Alex snapped.

"Bollocks. I've seen bullet wounds before—but never right over the heart." The con narrowed his eyes. "If you really were an orphan on the street, you'd be a dead orphan on the street."

"I—got lucky," Alex said.

"You got a bloody good surgeon, more like."

"I knew there was something strange about him," another con said eagerly. "Everybody said so. Never guessed he'd be the one, though."

"It's him," a third con chimed in. "He's the one."

"You're all mad," Alex said, striding quickly toward the tiled corridor between the showers and the cellblock.

"He's the inside man!"

Alex froze in the doorway. Behind him, he heard a collective intake of breath. But what could he do? If he tried to deny the accusation, they wouldn't believe him. If he didn't deny it, the story would spiral out of control. Either way, his cover would be blown.

Then Alex thought of the blackmail tactics that Blunt and Jones had used on him. He turned around.

"Can you keep a secret?"

The cons nodded eagerly, stepping closer.

"Right." Alex lowered his voice. "I won't tell you the identity of the inside man. Maybe it's me; maybe it's not. But I can tell you one thing. When Thin Lizzy sets sail, there won't be room enough for everyone."

They stared at him. One of the cons scrunched his forehead in deep thought—perhaps the ship metaphor had flown over his head.

"You mean—not everyone will get out?" the con said finally.

"Think about it this way," Alex said quietly. "This place has a three-to-one ratio of prisoners to guards, and nearly three hundred prisoners. How the hell could we all escape in one night?"

"Thin Lizzy," one of the cons mumbled.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, didn't quite catch that."

"Thin Lizzy," the con repeated, more strongly. "I thought it was supposed to be a foolproof plan."

"It is," Alex said, smiling sympathetically. "But not for everyone."

He stepped into his light-blue jumpsuit, slung his towel over his shoulder, and started into the tiled corridor. Then he glanced back at the convicts.

"If you tell anyone about this conversation, you'll wake up in your cells tomorrow."

He strode out into the corridor and didn't look back. It was a risky move—he could only hope that the convicts were too self-serving to blow Alex's cover and risk being left behind. He hoped—but he didn't count on it.

When Alex stepped out into the D block, Wolf was just checking his watch for the umpteenth time. Then he heard Alex's footsteps and spun around.

"Breakfast's nearly over. What took you so bloody long?"

"You were worried?" Alex said, tossing his towel into the plastic bin. "How touching."

Wolf glanced around—the corridor was deserted, with most of the convicts at breakfast. "What have you found out?" he asked, very quietly.

"Not much," Alex admitted truthfully. "I wanted to search the CE workshop yesterday, but I had to sneak back in time for the head count."

"The warden keeps the Creative Expressions roster in her office," Wolf muttered, as he and Alex strode toward the mess hall. "After breakfast, I'll sneak inside and put your name on the list."

"I'll also need—" Alex hesitated, sizing up the CE workshop in his head. "—I'll need ten to fifteen undisturbed minutes in the workshop, after everyone else has left."

"You'll have twenty," Wolf said, with a quiet assurance that reminded Alex what the SAS man was capable of. "Just make sure you find whatever the hell you're looking for."

"If it's there, I'll find it."

"And you think it's there?"

"I'm almost positive."

Actually, Alex wasn't positive at all. His desire to search the CE workshop was an instinct, an educated guess, at best—but Reid had reinforced the hypothesis during garbage duty the previous night. While Reid and Alex had trooped through the prison, Alex had casually mentioned Reid's CE painting, a black and red replica of the Rolling Stones logo. Even now, the conversation echoed in Alex's head.

"_You saw that?" Reid laughed reluctantly. "Wicked cool, eh?"_

"_Oh, yeah." Alex paused for a moment. "Actually, I can't believe you just left it there. It's so bloody good—if I were you, I'd be afraid that another con would steal it." _

_Reid blinked in surprise. "Nobody'll steal it, Jake. Every con gets his own CE station, his own supplies, and his own private storage area. Trust me, nobody will go digging around just to find my painting." He grinned. "Even if it is fucking brilliant."_

Alex had laughed, and garbage duty had continued in silence, but the significance of Reid's words haunted Alex's every step. Each convict had his own CE station. That meant that _Devon_ had his own CE station. A private storage area, a place to hide anything that might need hiding.

"It's there," Alex said, more firmly.

Wolf sighed. "It better be."

They had reached the narrow entrance to the mess hall. Wolf reached for the door handle, but Alex caught his arm.

"Wait."

He could sense something in the air, some inexplicable, tangible wrongness. He looked around. Through the small square window into the mess hall, a group of hardened convicts was staring straight at him. There was something familiar in their eyes. Recognition? Blame?

"What's wrong?" Wolf muttered.

Alex shook his head. He almost felt as though these convicts had pinned him as Thin Lizzy's 'inside man,' but that was impossible. He had just left the showers and come straight to the mess hall. There hadn't been enough time for the other cons to spread the word.

"Forget it," he said finally.

"Did you fuck something up?" Wolf said bluntly.

Alex hesitated. "Almost. The cons in the showers saw my bullet scar, and they convinced themselves that I had something to do with Thin Lizzy."

"You denied it, of course." Wolf raised an eyebrow at him. "Didn't you?"

"Not exactly." Alex sighed. " They had a decent point—how the hell could a criminal on the street get the proper treatment to survive a bullet wound? But I think I scared them enough that they'll keep their mouths shut."

Silence. Alex didn't like the look that Wolf was giving him.

"What?" he asked finally, dreading the answer.

"The shower room is bugged, Cub."

Before Alex could reply, before he or Wolf could formulate any possible way to salvage this shipwreck, the door to the mess hall banged open. The warden stood there, her hands clasped. Stray black hairs had come loose from her ballerina bun, the crows feet around her eyes looked deeper than ever, and there was a tightness in her jaw that Alex hadn't seen before. But she was smiling.

"Take him," the warden said softly.

Three guards piled out behind her, their broad muscles filling the narrow space between the mess hall and Alex. One of the guards carried handcuffs and chains; another had uncapped his baton to reveal the neon wire of an electric taser.

"Warden—" Wolf said slowly.

The first guard swung his baton, a high arc. But before the man knew what was happening, Alex had dodged, grabbed the weapon in midair, and twisted it away. The next guard swung his fist—Alex blocked with one hand and struck with the other. The guard stumbled backward, startled.

"_Take him_," the warden repeated, more impatiently.

Alex dodged the next blow and delivered a fast sidekick that sent the same guard slamming into the steel door. But then the guard with the taser took his opening—he shoved the wire into Alex's side. The pain was immediate and intense. Alex gasped and stumbled, clutching his stomach.

Another guard grabbed Alex's arms and forced them behind his back. Alex tried to clear his head. He knew how to free himself from this—but he knew, at the same time, that it wouldn't do any good.

"Holt," Wolf said sharply.

Alex glanced at him. Wolf's face was blank, but he shook his head a fraction of an inch, and Alex thought instantly of the man's words in the boiler room.

_That's the job, Cub._

Ian would have agreed

Alex twisted a few more times, acting out the fight, but the guard kept his iron grip. Alex could hear the warden laughing. The next time the taser drove like a white-hot flame into Alex's stomach, he didn't struggle.

Metal handcuffs tightened around his wrists. The warden brushed back his hair, delicately. And she smiled.

"Are you having fun yet?"

**As always, I'm thrilled that you made it to the end of the chapter! And now, notice that strange, persistent itch in your finger? I promise it'll go away if you push the review button and comment, flame, or whatever. :D**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: SakuraCa, swabloo, ifisher, JK Mafia, Emmy-loo, Lady Zarobiti, Jusmine, Mad Mogg, Hope12, HaydenBlossom, AleksandryaGregonovitch, UnfortunatelyMortal, Fan O' Fanfic, PleiadesWolfe, Nylah, Second daughter of Eve, Smelly Cat710, sheluby94dreamer, kisstina123, She Weapon1, Luciel, rid3r chick, Vetriana, shukuun, swansong, and Boo26! Muchas gracias to all of you for sticking with my humble, well-meaning, and slightly confusing story!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Whew, this is my longest chapter yet! I guess I should warn you: TORTURE AHEAD! It's not nearly as brutal as some things I've read, though, and I don't think this chappie will cause any lasting trauma. (evil grin) Except for Alex, maybe...**

**As usual, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. But I hope you enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: Hmm...nope, still not mine.**

His arms pinned by two guards, the metal handcuffs biting into his wrists, Alex closed his eyes for a brief moment. He should've known there were cameras everywhere. He should've kept a lower profile. He should've found the bloody flash drive already—or, better yet, he should've slammed the door on MI6 when he had the chance. It was painfully easy to pinpoint everywhere he'd gone wrong.

But when he opened his eyes again, they were clear with focus.

The warden noticed. "Cover him," she instructed coldly. "The old-fashioned way."

An old burlap sack descended over Alex's head, the rough fabric scratching his face like sandpaper. He couldn't see. He could only catch his breath and try to maintain the convict act that MI6, the director of this twisted play, was counting on him to pull off.

A tight grip encircled his upper arm, and then the guards were dragging him forward.

"Good thinking, Warden," Alex said, coolly enough to scare her. "The prison looks much scarier through a potato sack."

Something hard—a baton, probably—drove into Alex's stomach. He doubled over with an involuntary gasp, but the guards forced his shoulders up and pushed him further down the corridor. For the next few minutes, Alex said nothing. He had to figure out where they were taking him, and Ian had once taught him that, in the absence of roads or a compass, a man could always retrace his steps by counting paces. The same logic, Alex thought wryly, applied if that man had a burlap sack over his head.

_One—two—three_

For the next two hundred paces or so, the guards led Alex in a mostly straight line. Then, at exactly two hundred and four paces, they veered left. Alex closed his eyes, trying to envision his location—the south end of the B block, perhaps? Before he could be sure, the guards forced him to take another left.

"We're just going in circles," Alex said, surprised.

"Not for long," one of the guards snapped.

A sudden right turn. Alex barely had time to register the new darkness around him before his head slammed against a solid wall. Stars dotted his vision; he prayed he wouldn't black out.

"Watch your head," the guard sneered.

"Oh, thank you," Alex muttered.

One step later, the ground beneath Alex's feet was no longer there. His stomach swooped as his sense of balance deserted him, but the guards grabbed his shoulders until his foot landed on a narrow stone step.

"Keep moving, Holt. We don't have all day."

Alex stepped carefully down the curving staircase. He heard torches being flicked on around him. As the descent continued, the air grew colder. Alex breathed slowly, trying to stay calm—but he didn't like the stale smell in the air. It made him think of rust, and blood, and fear.

_Relax, _he told himself firmly. _You're an inmate, not a prisoner of war. They can't do anything life-threatening._

The warden seemed to have read Alex's mind. "You'd be surprised what a person can live through," she said softly. "You're not in a government-sponsored prison anymore, Holt—you're in a dungeon that doesn't officially exist, and you're facing an interrogation that won't officially happen."

"Right." Alex pretended to think. "But—correct me if I'm wrong—I can still officially ruin your life if I tell the inspectorate of prisons what goes on down here."

"Actually, you're quite wrong," the warden said, unruffled by the threat. "Everything we do is for the good of the prison and those inside it, including you."

"Well, that's a relief."

Without warning, two hand shoved him from behind—apparently, one of the guards had already gotten sick of Alex's mouth. Alex tried to regain his balance, but it was no good—momentum and gravity formed a deadly combination, and suddenly the world was spinning and he was tumbling blindly through it. Hazily, deciding that it would be best not to break his neck, Alex tucked his head into his chest and rolled sideways down the rest of the jarring stairs.

Thankfully—though rather painfully—he hit bottom.

"Next time you open your smart mouth, we'll drag you back to the top and start the whole damn ride again," the guard who had pushed Alex snarled.

Alex groaned and tried to get up, his cuffed hands trapped behind him. Nothing seemed broken. From faraway, he heard the warden's voice.

"Forgive me, guard, but I don't recall giving any instruction to push the boy down the stairs."

The guard coughed. "I just thought—"

"You didn't think," the warden said coolly. "If you had, you might have realized that it would be slightly difficult for us to interrogate a dead body."

"Ah, warden, that little tumble couldn't have killed him."

"Then next time, it's you we'll push down."

Alex heard footsteps against stone, and a moment later the warden touched his shoulder through the burlap.

"You are conscious under there, Holt, aren't you?" she asked pleasantly.

"If I say no?" he said flatly.

The warden laughed, a silvery sound that lifted the hairs on the back of Alex's neck. "In that case, on your feet. I wouldn't want you to miss all the fun."

Beneath the burlap sack, Alex smiled grimly. She didn't want him dead. This meant two very good things—first, she had nothing to do with Devon's family, or Scorpia, or any of his other enemies, and second, Alex might still be able to find the flash drive tonight. No matter how far he fell behind on his schoolwork, no one could argue that Alex Rider lacked a singularity of focus.

Two guards hauled him to his feet. Alex was dragged across the stone floor and thrown face first against what felt like metal bars. A key ring jangled; a lock clicked; a cell door slid open. Then Alex found himself uncuffed, backed up against a wall, and reshackled with his wrists chained above him.

"Take off his shirt," the warden instructed. "And the bloody bracelet."

Before Alex knew what was happening, they had cut through his shirt and pulled it off—and, infinitely worse, they had removed Smithers's allergy bracelet from around his wrist. He struggled for a few seconds, just for the sake of struggling, but those chains were not going anywhere.

"Don't get too comfortable," the warden said coolly.

"No danger of that," Alex said. And then, trying to sound calm—"I need the bracelet back. I have a severe allergy."

They completely ignored him. Then the burlap bag flew up past his eyes and landed in the corner. The good news: Alex could see again. The bad news: the warden was only inches away, and she looked unbearably smug.

"We've suspected you all along, Holt," she said. "Your little confession in the shower room only verified what we already knew."

"If you'd been paying attention, you'd know that I didn't confess to anything," Alex said, rather absently—he was scanning the cell, rapidly assessing his situation. It didn't look good. There were dark stone walls, steel bars blocking off the pitch-black corridor, one square of light cast from an overhead window, and two guards. One had an electric baton; the other held a taser gun. The second guard looked familiar—Alex realized, after a second or two, that it was the same dark-haired man who had conducted cell checks with the warden the previous night. And he was smirking even more widely than the warden.

"I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this," he said.

He leveled the taser at Alex and squeezed the trigger.

The next and only sensation Alex knew was pain. Intense, all-consuming pain that spread instantly to the tips of his fingers and toes. He was on fire beneath a rain of needles—his every nerve ending was screaming in protest—he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only wait for it to stop—

And then it did.

Alex closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone, gasping for breath. This was a minor setback. That was all. In fact, Alex should have expected it—when had he ever gotten through a mission without something going needlessly, horribly wrong? This mission was no exception. They would shock him a few more times and ask him some questions. He would offer a few sarcastic comments, and would eventually either talk his way out of the torture or black out—and maybe Wolf would be able to help, although Alex couldn't imagine how.

Then the pain started again, and he forgot whatever the hell he'd been thinking about.

His every muscle was throbbing at a supersonic pace. It was unbearable. It was like a gruesome massage in a vibrating bed of needles. Alex clenched his jaw and tried to breathe, distantly aware that his body had seized up and his toes were barely scraping the floor. He just wanted it to stop—he couldn't think beyond that—why wouldn't it stop—

"Guard," the warden said sharply.

Abruptly, the pain disappeared and Alex could breathe again. His limbs felt weak and tingling, as though he'd run five miles on a high-voltage track, but he supposed it could have been worse. Like a live dissection. Or a jellyfish.

He lifted his head. The guard was rewinding the electrode wire and loading it back into the taser gun.

"That was just a taste," the man sneered. "A little appetizer. If you answer all our questions, maybe we won't serve up the main course." His eyes darkened, and he leveled the taser again. "Then again, maybe we will."

Alex closed his eyes briefly. "Just don't expect a bloody tip."

ARARAR

Almost two hundred miles away, in an underground holding cell of the Royal and General bank, Jack Starbright was facing a different sort of torture, most of it in the form of a living, breathing cadaver named Alan Blunt.

"Miss Starbright," Blunt said coldly, "I'm going to ask you again."

"For the love of God," Jack said dully, covering her eyes with both hands.

At nine o' clock that morning, Alan Blunt himself had burst into Jack's room and started firing questions at her. Why did she betray Alex? How did the assassins know where to find him? Did she really expect anyone to believe her absurd radio-contest story? Now, two hours later, Blunt wasn't showing any signs of defeat. If anything, he seemed to be picking up steam.

"Every word I've said is true," Jack insisted flatly. "What'll it take to convince you?"

Blunt didn't blink. "A confession, first and foremost."

Jack glared, her green eyes smoldering. "Fine."

"I'm sorry?"

"I confess, Mr. Blunt."

Blunt's own eyes, a lifeless gray, widened slightly. He cleared his throat. "Go on."

Jack smiled bitterly. "I confess that I never realized how dysfunctional your little agency is. I confess that I never understood why Alex hates you so much, until now. And I confess that your offer to have me deported is starting to look very tempting." Jack leaned forward. "But I never—_never_—did anything to hurt Alex."

Blunt just stared at her with dead fish eyes. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

"What's the point?" Jack said miserably. "The truth isn't going to change, and you're not going to let me go. Why don't you just leave?"

"Believe me, I'd like to," Blunt said flatly. "Under ordinary circumstances, I would've left this mundane interrogation to the desk agents. But you're different, Miss Starbright. You've been pinpointed as a direct threat to our greatest asset and our secret weapon—"

"You mean Alex."

"—And that makes you a direct threat to the efficacy of MI6." He paused briefly. "I do hope you realize, Miss Starbright, that your Visa is—"

Jack's eyes flared. "I don't give a shit about my Visa, Mr. Blunt. In fact, if you were to deport me now, I'd probably celebrate."

"Is that so?" Blunt said, a faint note of curiosity creeping into his monotone. "You've always seemed inclined to stay with Alex. Has the boy—ah—overstayed his welcome in your life?"

Jack sighed. She knew exactly what the head of special ops was trying to do.

"Mr. Blunt," she said, more quietly, "I don't blame Alex. Everything I've said in this room is true. Please, just leave me alone."

A tense silence vibrated across the table. Blunt stared shrewdly at Jack; she stared earnestly back, willing herself not to blink. For a moment, she dared to hope that the heartless man had finally believed her story.

Then Blunt rose from his chair.

"I can see that it will take a good deal of time to extract the truth from you. But rest assured, Miss Starbright—we will wait."

He strode out into the corridor and closed the door firmly behind him. A second later, the familiar lock clicked into place. With a sigh, Jack flopped onto her bed and pressed one of the buttons on her metal bracelet. She wanted a message from Alex, but she knew better to get her hopes up

Then, like music to her ears, she heard a burst of static and a fast whisper.

"_Jack—I hope this thing is working."_

"Alex!" Jack gasped, sitting up straight.

"—_make sure to be extra careful, because none of those drones at MI6 are supposed to know that you have that bracelet—"_

Jack leapt to her feet and sprinted into the bathroom, pulling the door mostly shut behind her to block the range of the hidden cameras. As she jumped into the shower stall, Alex's voice continued.

"—_And I don't know why they suspect you, but you don't have to work so hard to convince me—I know you'd never do anything to hurt me. I—I'm sorry you're in this mess, Jack. But as soon as I find the flash drive, I'm coming straight back to MI6, and I don't care what I have to do—blackmail them, agree to work for them, or whatever—I'll sort everything out."_

Jack chewed on her lip. She knew Alex was trying to reassure her, but the idea of him selling himself to MI6 in exchange for her freedom was far from comforting. And he was blaming himself, of course. Jack sighed. If Alex's life weren't already so dangerous, she would've threatened to kill him.

Then again, considering her situation, making death threats probably wasn't the brightest idea.

"_For now," _Alex's voice continued, between a few flickers of static_, "you can use your bracelet to send a message to Mr. Smithers—"_

CLICK.

Jack gasped. Someone had unlocked the door.

"Please be my overactive imagination," she whispered.

A few seconds later, she heard footsteps in the next room.

"Shit," she whispered.

"Jack?"

It was Walkman. Jack gasped and slid the shower door shut. Three days—for three days she'd been secretly hoping to talk to the one guard at MI6 with some semblance of humanity, but now she would've given anything to make Walkman go away.

"Jack!" the blonde man called again, more forcefully. "Where are you? It's just me, not Blunt—I want to talk to you."

"I—I'm in the shower!" Jack shouted, and then cringed.

There was a brief pause.

"I—I don't hear any water running."

"I was just stepping in," Jack lied.

"—_Not sure how much he can do, but if you let him know where you're being held and why, maybe he can help—"_

"Jack?" Walkman sounded genuinely puzzled. "Are you talking to someone in there?"

"Shit," Jack repeated, horrified—Alex's voice was low, almost a whisper, but apparently Walkman could still hear it.

"—_I want you to let me know if MI6 tries anything, and—"_

"Is there a man in there?" Walkman said, suddenly sounding apprehensive.

"No!" Jack shouted, her voice higher than she'd intended. "I'm just taking a shower!"

Out of desperation, she twisted the silver faucets. The water gushed out and drenched her from head to toe before she'd even considered the fact that she was still wearing jeans, socks, and a baseball shirt.

"Shit," she hissed, for the third time—Alex voice was barely audible over the rush of the water. She pressed the bracelet against her ear, struggling to hear him.

"—_Don't worry about me, Jack." _A burst of static. _ "Just be safe." _

With that, the message was over.

Jack pushed back her drenched red hair and squinted at the bracelet. Then, recklessly, she pressed down on the back of the tag.

"Alex," she said quickly. "It's great to hear your voice. I missed some of your message, but I think I got the gist of it." She hesitated. "And Mr. Smithers, if you're listening to this, I know we haven't been formally introduced, but I could use some help. I'm being held somewhere on underground level three. If you can—"

"Jack!" Walkman called, more seriously. "Come out, right now!"

Thanking God for chivalry, or common decency, or whatever had so far prevented Walkman from bursting in on her, Jack hastily finished the message: "Gotta go—thanks, Mr. Smithers—and Alex, you be safe t—"

"I'M COMING IN!"

And this time, Walkman wasn't kidding. He drew his gun—an enormous overreaction, he knew, but what if there was someone else in there?—and kicked the bathroom door open the rest of the way. It banged against the wall, revealing a steamy bathroom and a closed shower door.

Jack poked her head out. "Do you _mind_?"

"Shit." Walkman stepped back.

"That seems to be the word of the day," Jack said dryly.

Walkman just blinked. Jack's red hair was soaking wet. And judging from her smooth, bare shoulders and a further glimpse of skin that made this encounter almost X-rated, the woman was undressed and just trying to enjoy a hot shower.

"I—I wasn't sure if you were actually in the shower," he explained.

"Well. I am."

"I heard you talking to someone."

"I was talking," she agreed, "to myself. It gets lonely here, you know." A brief pause. "Are you aiming a gun at me?"

Walkman lowered the semi-automatic and backed away, drawing on all his years of training to remain stoic. "I'll—um—I'll be waiting outside. Take your time."

"Sure." Jack slid the shower door closed again, and a few seconds later Walkman caught a whiff of the vaguely cinnamon-scented shampoo that MI6 provided its lower-level prisoners. For some reason, the scent didn't seem quite as cheap as it used to.

Shaking his head, Walkman retreated to Jack's bedroom and closed the bathroom door behind him. He had felt sure that Jack had been hiding something, but her shower must've been for real—in the split second before he barged in, she wouldn't have had time to undress and jump into the stall. He only hoped that the guys in the control room hadn't been watching the past few minutes too intently—or, at least, that they hadn't been snickering too much.

Inside the shower, fully dressed from the waist down, Jack Starbright stepped out from beneath the water and sighed deeply in relief.

ARARAR

Pain.

Alex knew pain, and words, and nothing else. He had lost track of time. He had lost track of everything except the electricity tearing through his body.

"Who else is involved in Thin Lizzy?"

"I don't know," Alex said, a groan escaping him.

"Who else is involved in Thin Lizzy?"

"I don't—"

A shock ripped through his body again. Someone might have been hitting him with a baton, too—it was difficult to be sure. The pain eclipsed his thoughts, and he hung blindly in the chains, waiting for it to end. He had screamed, much earlier, but now his voice was hoarse and his throat like sandpaper. He didn't have the energy to scream.

When the spasms stopped, he opened his eyes. The dark-haired guard was sneering, as per usual; the other looked cool and unaffected. The warden stood off to one side, her hands clasped tightly. She looked up at Alex and sighed.

"Jacob, we could literally do this all day."

_Jacob, _Alex reminded himself hazily. _Undercover._

"Just tell us everything you know about Operation Thin Lizzy," the warden said gently. "It'll be all right."

"I don't know anything," Alex said, through gritted teeth. "I just heard the other guys talking."

"What other guys, Jacob? What were their names?"

"I don't know," he said. "It was my first day. I didn't know anyone's name."

The warden's hands tightened in frustration, and she turned away. The boy was giving her nothing. He had started out with a collection of dark quips, which hadn't worried the warden at all—sarcasm was a flimsy shield, at best. Then the boy had stopped speaking altogether. This hadn't worried the warden, either. She could always break the inmates of their sarcasm, and she could nearly always break their stubborn silence.

But when Jacob Holt had started to give real answers, the warden had felt her first flicker of doubt.

"You're lying, Holt," she said, trying to sound confident. "According to our source among the inmates, you hinted that you were the so-called outsider come to execute Thin Lizzy. And in the showers, we heard similar implications from your own lips. You can't deny it."

The boy shook his head. His brown eyes were dull, but undaunted. "The shower room—I was just trying to get them to leave me alone. I don't know anything about Thin Lizzy."

"When is the breakout set to occur?"

"I don't know."

"So you acknowledge that there will be a breakout?"

Alex stared dully, unimpressed by her attempt at talking him into a corner. "That's the best you can do? Uninspired, at best."

The warden's eyes flashed. She nodded at one of the guards, and he shot the taser once more into Jacob Holt's stomach. The boy's body seized up—the warden watched, utterly dispassionate, as he cried out and pulled at his restraints.

"I really thought he was the guy," the other guard muttered.

"He is," the warden said darkly. "He must be. There's something different about him."

In fact, that was what worried her. Unlike the other prisoners, who would scream out any answer and sometimes lapse into incoherence, Jacob Holt knew what he was saying. He had an inherent carefulness, an unusual presence of mind, and he never contradicted himself. The warden had asked him the same question a million different ways—why was he here? What was his mission? Who else was in on it?

The boy just kept denying.

Fighting a sigh, the warden returned her gaze to her prisoner. The dark-haired guard had dropped the taser and grabbed a fistful of the boy's blonde hair, forcing his head backwards so that he was staring up at the ceiling.

"You're a nobody," the guard hissed. "Orphaned scum. Do you really think anybody would notice if you never came back?"

Alex didn't answer and stared stubbornly above him, his eyes traveling up five feet of stone wall to a dusty black windowsill. He focused on that windowsill, and although the guard kept talking, he didn't listen.

The warden stepped forward, holding what had once been the shock baton. The black plastic covering had been peeled back, so instead of one electric tip at the end, the whole baton was a long coil of electrified wire.

Alex stared coolly at her. "Should I be intimidated?"

"Perhaps."

"Hate to break it to you, but that thing hurts a lot less than you think it does."

The warden met his eyes. "Depends where we put it."

And before he could blink, she pressed the electric coil against his chest. Alex screamed, struggling in the chains. Unlike the taser gun, which caused all of his muscles to clench painfully, the stripped baton caused localized pain exactly where it touched. And it was a whole new kind of excruciating.

Just when Alex thought he was about to black out, the pain stopped. Someone was shouting, his voice rough and familiar.

"—Don't know what the fuck you're doing! You see that scar? See it, warden?"

Alex eyes snapped opened. The pain was over, but he wished, illogically, that the new voice would just go away. It felt as though his privacy—and, with the way he'd been screaming, his dignity—had been shattered.

"Bullet wound," the strong voice continued. "The kid probably has a weak heart, and if your little electroshock therapy stops his heartbeat, you can bet that it won't start again." The voice paused. "No matter how you feel about having blood on your hands, you can't torture information out of a corpse."

"The warden said something like that earlier," the dark-haired guard mumbled.

"Yeah? Apparently she hasn't got the best memory."

"You're out of order, Torres," the warden snapped.

"So are you," Wolf said flatly. "Now get the hell out. I want a few minutes to question him myself."

The warden considered for a long moment, her hands clasped as though deep in prayer. Wolf towered over her, his powerful arms folded and his dark eyes impatient. Alex was surprised and grudgingly impressed that the warden hadn't backed down yet; even though she couldn't know that Wolf was SAS, she must have realized that the man could've snapped her in half like a toothpick if he so desired.

Finally, the warden nodded curtly. "Since you're his corrections officer, he might be more forthcoming with information if you question him alone. I'll give you a few minutes." She offered the electric baton to him, but Wolf shook his head.

"Thanks anyway, Warden. I'll rough the kid up, but I don't want to short-circuit him."

"Fair enough." A frown creased her pale forehead. "But frankly, officer, you're off to a bad start."

Wolf watched as the warden and the other two guards disappeared out into the dark stone corridor. Then he let out his breath, locked the bars, and turned to face Alex.

"You okay, Cub?"

"Wolf to the rescue," Alex said under his breath, his eyes lowered to the stone floor.

"You're unbelievable," Wolf muttered, stepping up to Alex and taking stock of his injuries. "I made up the shit about the weak heart. Tell me it's not true."

"It's not," Alex said quietly. "I don't think so, at least."

"Right. Good." Wolf glanced toward the bars, making sure the corridor was clear. "Listen, I can't just let you out of here right now—"

"Of course not," Alex agreed. "You're undercover. And doing a bang-up job, by the way."

Wolf wasn't sure whether Alex was being sarcastic or not, so he just plunged ahead. "—But I think I'll be able to convince the warden to let you go after a couple more hours. I'll play the dumb rookie and act all horrified that you're being chained up so long—maybe I'll ask her about the rules and regulations regarding the treatment of inmates in the prison system."

"You think she'll give a damn that she's breaking the rules?" Alex said doubtfully.

Wolf shrugged. "The warden's a sick broad, but she won't want to risk losing her career. She'll have you back to your cell—er, your other cell—by dinner."

A couple more hours. On the one hand, Alex was glad that he could frame the torture with a definitive end. But on the other hand, a couple more hours felt like a very long time.

"Are you okay?" Wolf added, when Alex didn't reply.

"I'm fine."

Wolf looked slightly uncomfortable. "You don't have to just say that, Cub."

"Sure I do," Alex said honestly. "That's the job, right?"

Wolf was sharp enough to realize when his own words were being thrown at him. He nodded, with something like respect in his eyes, and then he turned to alert the warden that he was finished with the prisoner.

"Wait," Alex said, with difficulty. "I—the baton—"

Wolf looked at the electric baton that the warden had left on the floor. He reached for it, and Alex visibly flinched.

"She won't be getting this back," Wolf said darkly.

He picked up the electric baton and disappeared out into the corridor to confront the warden and the guards about it. Alex was left to hang there in his chains. Considering the situation, he should have been longing for a moment's rest or dreading the torture to come. Instead, he was analyzing the best way to get his transmitter bracelet back and wondering whether Wolf ought to have punched him in the jaw to make the act a little more convincing.

It was sad how completely and irrevocably MI6 had destroyed any semblance of a normal life.

**(cheers and puts Olympic medal around your neck) You made it! I'm definitely impressed. Now you can do even better: press the little review button and let me know your thoughts! I'm not kidding at all when I say that feedback helps me write faster. **

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: Boo26, Cheezels, TurnSmileShiftRepeat, JK Mafia, SheWeapon1, Captain Nire, ffhoupt, HaydenBlossom, Emmy-loo, AleksandryaGregonovitch, shukuun, rmiller92, Jusmine, ifisher, PleiadesWolfe, Lady Zarobiti, rid3r chick, Jack of Trade, Nylah, xLzR, nina, sheluby94dreamer, tati1, kurleyhawk2, FaeFolk, The13thHour, keatlin, anon, TanyaPotter, michellefromhell, beckysue904, and XsuicideXkittyX. Your comments are amazing, even better than chocolate ice cream--and chocolate ice cream is really, really good. :)  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**I won't waste time with excuses; I think you've been waiting long enough. :) Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Alex isn't mine yet, but he's on my Christmas list, and I've been a pretty good girl this year... ;)**

"It doesn't make any sense."

"Perhaps we should keep on with the torture. Just to be safe."

"Warden, the boy's been strung up in solitary since breakfast. If he knew anything, he'd have given up that and his mum by now."

"His mum's dead."

A low growl. "It's an _expression, _Warden."

Alex hung from the rusty chains, listening with mild interest to Wolf's strained voice and the warden's cool one. They were halfway down the corridor, speaking in hushed tones, but the subterranean acoustics were such that not even a whispered breath could go unheard.

"Protocol, Torres," the warden was hissing. "We hold the prisoners in solitary until they tell us what we want to hear. It sets an example."

"An example?"

"Yes."

"Do you torture and starve all the prisoners who might make good examples?"

The warden didn't sound remotely abashed. "You're new, Torres. Try to understand. These boys aren't like any you've ever met. They deserve—"

"What they deserve is open to debate," Wolf said shortly. "But this isn't about mercy, or forgiveness. There are _laws, _Warden. I—listen, I'm all in favor of a beating, especially a brutal one, when punishment is required. But mindless torture—"

"It's not mindless, Officer."

"Good luck proving that to the inspectorate of prisons."

There was a long, calculated pause. Alex twisted in the chains, imagining the warden's shrewd blue eyes and tight lips, and the black bun that had seemed austere until strands started coming lose. His breath hinged on her next words.

"Fine." The warden sighed, at long last. "He'll be returned to his cell. But not by you."

"What?"

"I'm having you reassigned, Agent Torres."

Alex swore under his breath. This would complicate things. But he couldn't dwell on it—footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, followed by the scrape of metal, and a moment later the warden was there. Alex lifted his head, making his eyes dull and cold. He was a prisoner, an orphan. Quiet and abandoned, but not broken.

Strange how the line between role and reality had started to blur.

ARARAR

The warden glared at the convict, blaming him for the bitter taste in her mouth.

"We're moving you, Holt," she said shortly.

"Where?"

"Back to the D block. Don't resist."

The convict shrugged. His eyes were like glass, his face like a sheet of paper. The warden studied him for a long moment and gave a chilling little laugh.

"I don't know why I ever considered you a threat," she said, very quietly.

Then the chains were off. Without warning, Holt stumbled forward. He collided with the warden—her hands flew up instinctively, and she raked him across the cheek with her nails, leaving four long grazes—and Holt, surprisingly, fell to his knees and groaned.

"Stand up," the first guard barked, wrenching Holt's arms back into a new set of cuffs.

Holt obeyed. The warden caught her breath and almost laughed. Holt hadn't been attacking her; he had merely lost his balance.

"Pathetic," she said softly, studying the blood under her nails.

The convict was dragged to his feet and properly chained. Both guards shoved him across the room. Then, as the warden watched coolly and Holt glanced back, their eyes locked.

The warden froze.

It felt almost as horrible as when she had slipped a little mirror into her plain metal locket and worn it around her neck for too long to keep track of, and then one day she'd cracked the locket open and found herself face-to-face with a woman she didn't recognize. But this time was worse. This time, she saw something foreign and careful.

And dangerous.

Then the moment passed. The guards dragged Holt up the dark stone staircase, and the American boy's screams started up from the other end of the corridor, and the warden walked slowly toward her office and straightened her ballerina bun, which had begun to come undone.

ARARAR

Alex was thrown unceremoniously to the concrete floor. From behind him, there was the familiar rattle of metal bars. He lay there for what felt like a long time, listening to the guard's voices and heavy footsteps, playing the role of a beaten child.

He felt like hell. It made the charade a little easier.

Eventually, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the cot. When he looked up, he found himself under intense scrutiny, like an animal in a rusty cage, beneath the eyes of a broad-shouldered Scottish guard.

"Can I help you?" Alex asked, rubbing his aching shoulder.

The guard's voice was cold and crisp: "It's my job to keep your toes in line and your mouth shut. So if you can do that for me, then yeah, it might help a little."

"Your job?" Alex frowned, scanning the corridor as far as he could see. "Where's Torres? I think I liked him better."

The guard narrowed his black eyes. "I'm your boss now."

"Where's Torres?" Alex repeated, making the question sound just-for-the-hell-of-it.

The guard sneered menacingly and tapped the baton against his open palm. "That's not your concern. But here's something you _should_ be concerned about—break the silence policy again, and I'll drag you back to solitary by your hair and remove your fingernails, one by one."

"Huh." Alex raised his eyebrows. "I'm dying to know—did the psychotic-Gestapo-torturer shtick come with the billy club?" His eyes raked over the guard's dog tags and wristband. "And the matching accessories kit?"

The guard's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Care to repeat that?"

Alex was tempted to comply. The new guard seemed easy to bait, and Alex was still feeling slightly caustic after the minor inconvenience of having been chained up and tortured all day. But he knew better.

"If you have a problem, Holt—"

"Nothing," he mumbled, lowering his head just slightly. "I didn't say anything."

"That's what I thought."

Alex lay back on the cot and bit the inside of his cheek. He heard the guard pacing.

"In a few minutes, the D block will be back from dinner. You will not speak a word to them."

Alex stared at the ceiling. "Fine."

"You will not answer any of their questions."

"Okay."

"And you will not breathe the words 'Thin Lizzy,' under any circumstances."

Alex glanced at him, eyebrows raised again. "Didn't I just agree not to say a word?"

The guard all but snarled, and Alex quickly snapped his eyes back to the ceiling. Listless. Apathetic. It was crucial that he present the picture of a broken delinquent, even if it meant biting his tongue at moments when he normally would've spoken out. He counted the water-stains on the ceiling. One, two, three, four—

"Until tomorrow," the guard said finally, turning away. "I would say 'good night,' but we both know that's not going to happen."

And then Alex's new corrections officer was gone, probably off to drain a bottle of Scotch and maybe drown himself in it.

Ten minutes later, when the D block returned to their cells, Alex was staring at the ceiling. When most of the block trooped off to Creative Expressions, secretly hoping that Jacob Holt or an undercover guard or some other Thin Lizzy antihero would clamber out of an air duct and lead them all to freedom, Alex was staring at the ceiling. And when the convicts returned, a few of them looking crestfallen to still be prisoners, most of them looking ready to kill the next thing that moved, Alex was still staring at the ceiling.

"Jake," Reid hissed, tapping on the cell walls. "Jacob. Alive in there, mate? What'd they do to you?"

Alex could feel the guards looking. Watching. They were trying to gauge if Jacob Holt was still a threat, if he still merited a round-the-clock guard and vigilant surveillance, or if he should be sneered at and forgotten.

Alex stared blankly at the ceiling.

ARARAR

The prison had never been as tense as it was that night. After lights-out, the cons lay pale-faced and wide-awake in their cells, glancing occasionally toward the barred windows. If anybody so much as sneezed, there would've been a bloodbath. Alex could hear Reid humming the tune to Jailbreak, hoarse and barely audible. Guards patrolled with vigilance, and every cell was checked three times to ensure that each prisoner was accounted for and each cell was secure.

When the convicts had been silent for two hours, the warden diverted most of the guards to the prison perimeter. She watched them pace beneath the stars, watched them wash the craggy shoreline with spotlights, watched them climb watchtowers and stare out at the dark ocean.

Then she returned to her office, sat down at her desk, and laughed.

If the secret had been kept, Thin Lizzy might have had a chance to succeed. But the prison was ready tonight. It was on high alert. According to the near-legendary lore, Thin Lizzy depended on an outsider-turned-inside-man, who would sneak inside and set the prisoners free.

But nobody would be getting inside or outside tonight.

While the warden was winding up her music box and pouring herself a glass of brandy, Alex Rider was walking quietly through the dark, following the shadows. He kept walking until he came to the Creative Expressions workshop. The door was locked; he reached into his pocket and removed the black bobby pin that he had pick pocketed earlier that day, and that he had used to escape his cell.

"Thank you, Warden," he muttered, sliding it into the lock.

The workshop looked haunted in the darkness. Half-painted canvases and sheet-draped easels cluttered the room, some with paintings of clumsy fruit bowls or naked women, others with simple stick figures; Reid's, with his bold Rolling Stones logo, and—there. Devon's station.

Alex crossed the room with reluctant anticipation. For a moment, he studied the pale greens and dark reds and sepulchral grays of Devon's canvas. In the darkness, it all looked the same.

Holding his breath, he opened the drawer behind Devon's easel.

"Well," Alex muttered, blinking. "Not what I expected."

The drawer was almost empty. The bare wood had been scraped with doodles, and the bottom was lined with charcoal sketches and paper-clipped pages of a handwritten story. But there was nothing else. Alex felt along the underside of the drawer. Then he removed the drawer and searched inside the opening.

Nothing.

Alex was seized by a sudden, uncontrollable urge to kick something. Instead, he replaced the drawer and stood for a few seconds, thinking.

Now what?

Feeling halfhearted, he flipped through the pages of Devon's easel and searched the tubes of paint with the tip of a paintbrush, in case Devon had concealed the flash drive inside. Then he checked the next station, the same one where Alex had painted a crude portrayal of prison bars. Still nothing. He tried the drawer at the station to Devon's right. It was filled with scribbled-out paintings of rainbows and unicorns, and what appeared to be a comprehensive handbook on how to murder the Jonas Brothers. A spider crawled along the side of the drawer.

"For the love of God," Alex muttered, pushing it closed.

Then he drew a sharp breath. A beam of light had appeared, shining through the frosted window and into the workshop. One of the guards must have been patrolling just outside the door. Alex was tempted to drop to his knees and roll underneath a desk, but he knew better—now that the guard was looking, any flicker of movement would bring him inside. Alex held perfectly still.

The light swept past again.

Alex's body buzzed with calm adrenaline. He scanned the room, weighing his choice of weapons. There were no scissors, no knives, no hardcover books. The easels were brittle, constructed of very light ash—they would probably splinter before doing much damage.

Alex crouched, very slowly, to the floor. The guard would probably keep walking; with any luck, he could avoid a fight.

Then the doorknob twisted.

"Of course," Alex muttered under his breath.

A rectangle of light appeared, and a black shadow moved into the workshop. No—not just one shadow. There were three. Three guards, their faces blank in the darkness.

Alex moved, very slowly, toward the wall. Perhaps he could slip around behind them and out the door; perhaps he could avoid a fight.

He had almost reached the far wall when one of the guards sensed Alex's presence. Perhaps the man had a sixth sense, or perhaps he was just taking a shot in the dark—for whatever reason, the torch swung around, and suddenly Alex was caught in a beam of light.

He froze. His back was facing the guards. They could see his height, his build, and his hair color, but until they saw his face they couldn't actually prove who he was.

"Okay, that's enough," one of the guards intoned, stepping forward. "Put your hands up."

Alex slowly lifted his hands. He could feel the three guards stepping up behind him, could almost see their exchanged smirks.

"What's your name?" another guard said, jabbing Alex's back with the torch. "How'd you—"

That was the last thing the man said, because suddenly Alex was in motion. He spun—his open palm slammed up into the guard's throat, and the torch clattered to the floor.

"Son of a—" the guard choked out.

It was dark again. Alex's eyes were adjusted, but the guards' were not—and Alex was still spinning. He put all of his momentum into a sweeping kick, and suddenly the second guard was going down. Alex shoved him as he fell, and the man landed against an easel, the wood shattering like a house of toothpicks beneath him.

Alex jumped over him and ran for the door.

"Stop him!" the first guard wheezed, coughing.

Alex was inches from the doorknob when something heavy slammed into the back of his right knee. His leg buckled, and then something else—a torch, probably—knocked into him again and sent him sprawling to the floor. He caught himself with both hands and started to get up, and suddenly he was being dragged back across the floor, sliding on his stomach through a forest of easels and wood splinters. One of the guards had grabbed him by the ankles.

"Bad idea," Alex grunted.

He rolled over onto his back, twisted his right leg free, and kicked the guard in the face. Hard. The guard swore violently, blood streaming from his nose. Alex scrambled backward and started to get up.

Then the first guard was back. He struck fast, three jackhammer punches that caught Alex off-guard. Alex was suddenly on the ground again, his temple and his ear throbbing. The guard moved to stomp down on Alex with his heavy boot, but then the third guard came running to help—and accidentally knocked the first guard off-balance.

It was the window Alex needed. He rolled sideways, jumped to his feet, and grabbed the nearest item in the darkness: a thick wooden paintbrush.

The guard came at him again. Alex dodged the first punch, blocked the second, and then struck.

"SON OF A BITCH!" the guard screamed, clutching his eye.

"Lucky shot," Alex said, dropping the paintbrush and driving his palm up into the guard's jaw.

The man's head snapped back; he growled and swung at Alex in pure fury, but Alex knew that the scales had tipped in his favor. He dodged and blocked easily.

He might have won then, if the second guard hadn't come back for more.

Suddenly, in mid-block, Alex's right arm was twisted backward. He ducked just in time to avoid the first blind punch, but he didn't even see the second one coming. Pain—an explosion of stars—Alex would have fallen backward, but the guard maintained the grip on Alex's arm and yanked so hard that Alex felt his arm had been ripped from its socket. Then the first guard jumped back in and shoved Alex face-first against the wall.

"Can't we work this out?" Alex asked, pinned by the pressure of an arm on his neck and a knee in his back.

"I believe that's what we're doing," the guard hissed.

Alex shifted his weight, freed one of his arms.

"Have it your way, then."

The guard had a split second to think Alex was mad before a deluge of thick acrylic paint sprayed him in the face. Alex had grabbed a paint tube off the table as the guard shoved him around, and now he had used it as mace substitute—unconventional, but with similar effects. The guard swore, and Alex broke free. He felt almost guilty—a paintbrush to the eye _and _a face full of paint seemed rather like overkill.

But before he could dwell on it, the second guard was back. Taller than Alex and about a hundred pounds heavier, he abandoned all finesse and tackled Alex to the ground. Alex's head jolted back against the tile. He struggled against the weight.

"Cut down in the struggle," the guard snarled, lowering a splintered piece of wood to Alex's throat. "A justifiable end."

Alex reached for the chemical smoke bomb on his bracelet, and then remembered that he didn't have the bracelet anymore. He was pinned. Helpless. He groped in the darkness for any improvised weapon, and found a stack of papers—Devon's story.

He rolled the papers up and tried to strike upward at his assailant's nose, but the guard was prepared. He wrenched the papers from Alex's hands and tossed them aside. Then he prodded the splintered wood against Alex's throat again.

"Don't think I won't, kid."

"Hold on," the third guard said sharply. "You're not authorized to kill him."

Alex blinked in surprise; the guard pinning Alex looked up furiously. "_Authorized? _Is that a joke?"

"What the fuck do you think?" the other guard shot back.

Cold, cynical laughter. "We're authorized to spy on the cons, but never talk about it. We're authorized to torture, but never in public. The warden's just a shitload of hypocrite." He pressed the splintered wood harder into Alex's skin. "Besides, we're only liable if the violence is premeditated. If it happened during the fight—"

"Good point," Wolf said, and swung the heavy torch into the back of the guard's head.

The guard slumped, out cold.

With a groan, Alex shoved the dead weight off of him and got slowly to his feet. The second guard, who had been rinsing his eyes at the sink in the corner, suddenly found himself thrown forward, his head colliding with the spotted mirror. Wolf let the body fall to the floor, but caught it just before the man's head could smack the linoleum. Then he turned to Alex.

"Bloody hell, Cub."

"What just happened?" Alex muttered, leaning against the wall.

Wolf stared, only a sliver of his face visible in the light from the open door. "The guards caught you. And I'm pretty sure I just saved your ass." He stepped closer, squinting and holding up a hand. "How many fingers?"

"I don't have a concussion," Alex said impatiently. "I meant, what happened? What's our cover story for a destroyed workshop and two KO'd guards?"

Wolf blinked. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Wolf leaned against the wall beside Alex. "Um—"

"Yes?"

A beat of silence.

"Nothing," Wolf said finally.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, staring at the two bodies and wondering what to do next. The room was dead silent.

"Are you okay?" Wolf said gruffly.

"I just said I'm fine."

"I meant—you know. The electroshock—"

"I'm _fine,_" Alex said, suddenly angry.

"But," Wolf hesitated. This was new, awkward territory for him. "Are you okay?"

Alex sighed. He wasn't okay, but at the same time, he had to be. This was a job, and he wasn't done yet. Wolf seemed to understand; he let the question drop and folded his arms thoughtfully.

"You know," Alex added, in an attempt to return to the usual dynamic, "this would've been slightly easier if you'd have convinced those guards not to come in here in the first place. But I guess they don't teach foresight at Brecon Beacons."

"The blame game?" Wolf glared huffily. "Really, Cub? I thought you only _looked_ like a teenager."

"And I thought you only acted like one," Alex returned dryly.

Wolf rubbed his forehead. "The guards?" he reminded Alex.

"They'll need to be controlled," Alex said, shrugging.

"Controlled," Wolf muttered. "'Controlled'—does that mean 'distracted, bribed, and fed a brilliant cover story'? Or 'shoved in a dark closet somewhere'?"

Alex grinned slightly. "I've heard it both ways."

"Bloody special ops," Wolf said, rolling his eyes. "At least tell me you've found whatever the hell you're looking for."

Alex didn't want to admit that his lead had turned up empty, but as easy as it would've been to lie, Wolf deserved a grain of truth every once in awhile. "I'm looking for a flash drive," he said honestly. "I had hoped it would be in here, but so far, no luck."

"A flash drive."

"Yes."

Wolf laughed without humor. "I thought it would be something more—I don't know. Explosive." Then he sighed. "Did you search vampire-boy's entire station? The drawer, the table, the French art-stand thing—"

"French art-stand thing." Alex had to think about that for a minute. "The—easel?"

"Yeah. The easel." Wolf glared. "What, you think I'm fucking Diego Rivera?"

Alex shrugged innocently. "That's your personal choice; I won't judge."

The meaning slowly dawned on Wolf, and then he glared even more fiercely. "Diego Rivera is dead, you know."

"Oh." Alex blinked. "Well. I'll try not to judge, Wolf, but that is pretty messed up."

Wolf looked ready to deck him, so Alex quickly plunged on: "I searched Devon's station thoroughly. I only found some artwork and a handwritten story. No flash drive, no clues."

"A story?"

"Yeah." Alex retrieved the pages from the floor. "Probably from a writing workshop or something."

"There's your clue, Cub," Wolf said gruffly. "What do you think people write about? Their secrets. Their past. Just give it a quick read, and maybe you'll learn something."

Alex shook his head calmly. "Devon wouldn't be that stupid."

Wolf rubbed his forehead again. "Look, Cub. He's not going to write, 'Hi, my name is Devon, and here's my evil plan.' But he might give something away in terms of his biases, his thoughts. You'll be able to read him."

"It's a good idea," Alex admitted.

He held the pages up to the light and squinted at the first words, the name of the assignment: _Creative Autobiography._

"A very good idea," Alex muttered.

He looked at Wolf, who seemed to have grown an inch taller and puffed himself out a little, secretly proud to have come up with 'a very good idea.' Alex fought a laugh.

"Okay." Alex tucked the pages into his shirt. "I'll go back to my cell and read this, and you take care of the guards and then get back to fucking Diego Rivera. Remember to be safe."

Wolf growled and took a swing at him, but Alex was already gone.

**AN—Okay. Maybe I can't resist a few excuses... (sheepish grin) I have 2 hours of marching band rehearsal every day. I'm also leading a community service committee, writing for a satire newspaper, struggling to pass symbolic logic (pure EVIL, I'm telling you!), studying for exams, initiating new members into an honorary band service sorority, and organizing a convention for more than 700 people. (whew) The point of this sob story...don't hate me! I try!!! :)**

**I'm going to do my best to return to making regular updates. I'm sorry for everyone who has been waiting so patiently (or impatiently). Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter (way, way back when): Emmy-Loo, ifisher, Mad Mogg, Jusmine, beckysue904, Lady Zarobiti, HaydenBlossom, Wolfmonster, Arica, Princess of Rivendell, Neptunian Diamond, Drayconette, tati1, The Shang Kudarung, rmiller92, sheluby94dreamer, AleksandryaGregonovitch, keatlin, PleiadesWolfe, Lal Mirch, SheWeapon1, kaitiemarie219, FaeFolk, Aquanova, XsuicideXkittyX, Hope12, madness comes to all, zerwey, Taigh, XxXmaxiuM-RideRXxX, Juliet Butler, Mallorie, kurleyhawk2, kisstina123, yotakehisuo174, Nyxelestia, skabs, Fr3ya, Oh My Kai, MKofGod, DeathGodGirl, The Bloodless Butterfly, ty, whatever95, hittocerebattosai, Hatten, aiimee, alisha.x, Hemlock27, aimael, and RiderGirl007. Your comments are amazing, and I promise I won't force you to wait so long this time. :) **


	11. Chapter 11

**Hi everyone! Slightly quicker update than last time, right? (sheepish grin) I did my best. This chapter is pretty long, and sort of transitory--not as much action, but the story is going to start picking up momentum. Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Alex (yet).**

At the stroke of midnight, the D Block was tense and silent. Each con lay awake, staring into the darkness like a skeleton in its coffin. They were waiting for Thin Lizzy. And as the seconds ticked past, they were waiting for something that seemed less and less likely to occur.

Alex returned very quietly to his cell. Next door, Reid lay flat on his back, his eyes closed, his hands folded, and his skin a ghostly white—had his chest not been rising and falling slightly, Alex would have mistaken him for a corpse. A plastic cup lay abandoned next to Reid's sink, and a wet stain was fading on the concrete in front of the toilet.

Alex felt tempted to make sure that Reid was okay, but his mission had to come first. He slid the warden's hairpin into the lock and let himself back into his cell.

Most of the D block had fallen into darkness, but one fluorescent light was buzzing weakly at the center of the corridor. Alex sat against the bars, using as much of the dim light as possible, and squinted at Devon's "creative autobiography." The handwriting was sprawling and careless, but somehow neat.

"Once upon a time," Alex muttered, opening to the first page.

The writing was painfully formulaic, as though Devon had been given a sequence of half-written sentences and had been instructed to fill in the blanks. Apparently, Devon was an avid chess player. His favorite movies were _The Thomas Crown Affair _and _Bram Stoker's Dracula. _He had been home-schooled, and he spoke fluent French and Spanish—_mi padre me enseñaba, _the autobiography explained.

Devon also talked about his childhood. Throughout his sixteen years, he had lived in nine different cities—London, for the past two years. He hated London. He described the streets as dark and dirty, full of criminals and rats and people too lazy to throw their rubbish in bins—"a cesspool," Devon had written, "of human worthlessness."

To Alex, this seemed slightly melodramatic. Then again, Alex had grown up in a very different London.

The next section of Devon's autobiography was labeled "my family." It contained another list of facts—Devon was an only child, born December 2nd, no mother and a moonlighting drunk father—Alex skimmed this section quickly. The next page was more promising. It was written in Devon's own hand. A childhood memory—Alex couldn't have asked for a better source.

_I remember one day. It shattered everything I thought I knew. It was Sunday, around noon. Dad and I were going out to the laundry, and we planned to stop at a courtyard café for a cheap dinner. We walked up to the counter. I started looking at the menu. Then my dad saw someone across the room. It was a man, nondescript-looking, dressed in plain clothes. _

_I had just a few seconds to feel confused. Then the nondescript man was getting up and walking away, very fast, and my dad was running. He shouted over his shoulder for me to stay put, and he chased the man out of the courtyard and into an alley. I ran after them. I hid just around the corner, and I saw what happened._

"_STOP!" My dad grabbed the guy and they started fighting hand-to-hand. It was terrific and absurd. Dad has taught me basic self-defense, but this was much more, a very specific martial art. Dad took the guy down. I think I made some shocked gasp from my hiding spot around the corner, but neither of them heard me. I was ten years old, and too scared to move, so I just watched and listened. I think my dad and the stranger used to be friends. I heard my dad say that he hadn't spoken to any of "them" since he had been "burned." Then I heard him say that he needed his name taken off the blacklist._

_The other man said, "You know I have no say in that, Anton. I don't know anything about it."_

_My dad asked why the man had run away from him._

_The man looked uncomfortable. "I'm in deep cover. I shouldn't even be talking to you. What if someone saw us come back here? I shouldn't—"_

_My dad interrupted. They kept talking for a minute longer, but in very low voices. I don't know what they said. Then the man groaned in pain, and my dad walked around the corner stuffing cash that wasn't his into his pockets. He saw me standing there, and he must have seen my confusion, but he didn't say anything. Didn't yell or swear or explain. _

_We drove home. Usually Dad stays sober during the day, but right then, he reached for the single-malt scotch. _

Alex put down the papers and rubbed his forehead.

"Just brilliant."

Things had suddenly become much more complicated. Alex had known that Bartoy was smart—the man had conducted research at CERN, after all—and he had known that Bartoy was dangerous. But after reading Devon's story, Alex knew something else, too.

He knew that Anton Bartoy had once worked for MI6.

ARARAR

A raw scream tore through the air.

"Not again," Jack muttered, her stomach swooping.

it was past midnight; she was sitting on her bed, reading _1984 _for the third time. The pages were sticking together, and she was skimming the chapter about thoughtcrime and trying not to think about the locked door or the surveillance cameras or the unexplained screaming.

As she turned to the next page, there was a knock at the door. Jack stood up, confused. Who would be knocking? The door was locked from the outside, and the guards preferred to barge in whenever they liked.

"Come in," she said haltingly.

The door swung open, and in waddled an enormously rotund man with a black mustache and a head shinier than the cue balls on Ian's old snooker table. The man was looking anxious; the lines around his mouth indicated that he smiled most of the time, but at the moment his mouth was set in a grim line. He was carrying a tray with a white teapot and two teacups.

Jack took a step backward.

"Can I—help you?" she asked, groping behind her back for a hardcover book.

The rotund man blinked and shook his head. "I don't suppose you can. In fact, my dear, I'm the one who ought to be helping you."

"You work for them," she accused.

"Well—yes, but—"

Jack's hands found _A_ _Legacy of Ashes, _and she tried to remember what Alex had taught her—driving the spine across the bridge of the assailant's nose, or slamming the corner into the assailant's throat—

"Ah, Jack, you're only trying to butter me up," the man said, his eyes twinkling. "I know my appearance isn't sufficiently intimidating as to prompt an attack with a hardcover book. But I do appreciate your efforts."

Jack flushed. "You're—"

"I'm here to help."

His voice was earnest, his eyes beseeching. Jack sighed and set the book down again. "Who are you?"

"I make the gadgets 'round here—quite well, if I do say so myself—and I daresay Alex and I have developed a sort of—ah—rapport." He grinned. "He's quite a teenager."

"I know," Jack said.

The man set down the tray and extended an enthusiastic hand. "My name is—"

"Smithers!" Jack blurted, her green eyes lighting up. "I should've guessed."

He chortled, his several chins bouncing. "I see Alex has mentioned me."

Jack smiled. "He has. From what I've heard, you're the only one on Alex's side in this whole damn place." She remembered the bracelet, and added, "I guess you got my m—"

But Smithers widened his eyes and shook his head a fraction of an inch. Jack froze. If the surveillance picked up anything about the message-transmitting bracelets, both she and Smithers would find themselves in deep water.

"Sorry?" Smithers said casually, squeezing into the broken wooden chair.

"—You got my back," Jack finished lamely.

"Ah. That I do." He poured her a cup of tea and inclined his head.

"I'm more a coffee person," Jack said.

Smithers smiled in sad reminiscence. "So was Ian Rider."

Jack frowned. "I know."

She took the teacup and watched the steam rise. When she spoke, it was in a deliberately restrained tone.

"You come in here talking about Alex and Ian. Trying to gain my trust, or bring my guard down." She looked up. "They sent you, didn't they? They sent you to make me confess."

She expected him to deny it. Instead, Smithers looked pained. "I—er—I won't pretend that I'm here of purely my own volition. As you well know, everything that happens in this room is being recorded."

"Big Brother is watching," Jack quoted bitterly.

"Indeed. " Smithers looked seriously at her. "They're allowing me to visit you because they think you'll trust me. But you _can_ trust me, Jack. I'm not working again you."

"Really," Jack said, folding her arms.

"Yes. I swear on my life—all I want is the truth." He paused. "Blackwhite. No shades of gray."

Jack took a sip of tea and swirled the steaming liquid with a spoon, careful not to touch the edges. It gave her time to think. She knew what Smithers was hinting at. In _1984, _"blackwhite" was a token example of doublespeak. It meant that Smithers would be speaking in code. She could use his visit to get some answers, but only if she could decipher them.

"Can I ask you something?" Jack said quietly, looking up.

"Of course, my dear."

"I heard screaming. Again." She paused. "What—"

But Smithers was shaking his head. "I daresay you heard water rushing through an obstruction in the pipes. It's common enough. I should be able to repair it, if the sound is bothering you or torturing your sleep—"

_Torturing_. Jack suddenly felt sick.

"Jack?" Smithers prompted, sipping his tea.

"No. Never mind." She took a deep breath. "Will the—will the pipes in my room ever start to make sounds like that?"

Smithers knew what she was asking. He shook his head. "I very much doubt it, Jack."

This wasn't the comforting negation that Jack had hoped for. She forced a smile. "Okay. That's good, I guess." She paused. "Am I being watched at every moment?"

"I'm afraid so," Smithers said, with a grim smile. "Even when the shifts change, every four hours from midnight, there's always someone in the control room."

Jack nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude. Smithers was good. He had stayed within the confines of what MI6 wanted him to say, but he had also communicated the times when the guards changed shifts—in other words, the times when Jack was least likely to have someone watching her.

She swallowed hard. "When can I go home?"

"As soon as you give an adequate explanation of your mysterious holiday and the letter to your parents. We know you're hiding something, my dear."

"No, I'm not," Jack said defensively—she knew Smithers was only acting for the cameras, but a chill gripped her spine nonetheless.

"Nothing at all?"

Jack hesitated, and then rested a hand upon the _1984 _paperback. "No."

She was calm.

She was lying.

After working with the best covert agents in the country, and arguably the world, Smithers had honed his ability to read between the lines. He nodded. Then he opened his mouth to ask another coded question, to find out what Jack was hiding that might help or hurt her case—

And the door swung open.

"That will do, Mr. Smithers."

It was the dark-suited agent who had interrogated Jack.

"Agent Roxbury!" Before the man could react, Smithers had grabbed his hand and pumped it in an enthusiastic handshake. "How've you been, old chap? Not letting the bureaucratic troubles bring you down, I hope?"

Roxbury frowned coolly. "Have we met? I can't recall—"

Smithers chortled heartily. "Perhaps you've never required any of my gadgets, Agent, but I refuse to believe that you've forgotten my involvement in yours and Ian's cold war over the premium leather office chair. The passive-aggressive post-it notes—the subtle acts of manipulation—"

"Ian won?" Jack guessed.

"Mr. Smithers," Roxbury said through gritted teeth, "you've seen the girl, you've failed to win her over, and you're done here."

Smithers grinned. "Of course Ian won."

Roxbury was turning so steadily red that Jack suspected his head was about to pop like an overcooked hotdog; Smithers bowed his own head in farewell and made a swift, though ungraceful, exit. Jack's hand tightened on her paperback.

"You can't just dismiss him like that."

"In fact, I can." The agent closed the door, and Jack heard it lock. "Smithers is a technical wizard, Miss Starbright, but you'll find that I have slightly more useful powers."

Jack tensed. She knew, now, that the screaming was coming from people being tortured in the surrounding cells. And she knew that MI6 believed she had something to hide.

"Don't touch me," she warned.

"Of course we won't. You haven't even been here a week—we hardly see the need, yet, for physical persuasion."

It was a challenge. The use of the pronoun "we" signified the involvement of a large group—everybody vs. Jack. And the word "yet" signified that, if they weren't torturing her now, they would be soon. But Jack didn't flinch.

"If you touch me," she said steadily, "Alex will kill you."

"Like you nearly killed him?"

"I didn't—"

The man smirked and sat down across from her, for the third time.

"Let's just start back at the beginning, shall we?"

ARARAR

Alex was surrounded by snakes.

First, he was running down a long windowless corridor with a door at the end, but the floor wasn't floor—it was a moving carpet of squirming, slithering snakes. The hissing sounds rose around him, and suddenly he wasn't in the corridor anymore—he was in darkness, coal-black, impenetrable, and his arms were pinned to his sides by the coils of a massive rattlesnake. He struggled, but he couldn't move. And then the snake wasn't a snake anymore. It was Alan Blunt, a forked tongue darting between his lips—

"AH!" Alex woke up, feeling startled and thoroughly disgusted.

"You okay?" Reid whispered from the cell next-door.

Alex sat up on his cot and pushed his sweaty blonde bangs out of his eyes. The dark cell faded slowly back into his consciousness, and he instantly understood the source of his nightmare—the strange hissing sounds had returned to the D block.

"Fine," Alex muttered.

He didn't remember falling asleep, and there was no way to judge the time. Was in one in the morning? Three? Was it nearly dawn? At this rate, it looked as though Thin Lizzy had been little more than a bedtime story.

Alex moved to the sink and turned on the faucet. The water was lukewarm and slightly murky, but Alex was thirsty enough. He grabbed the small plastic cup from beside the sink and took a small drink. Around him, the hissing sounds continued.

"Reid," Alex said, very quietly.

Hollow silence. Perhaps the boy had gone back to sleep.

Alex sat on the edge of the cot, his mind turning over everything he'd learned.

Once, more than fifteen years ago, Anton Bartoy had sat on one of the armchairs in front of Alan Blunt's sweeping mahogany desk. They had sent Bartoy into CERN—perhaps to investigate the production of the World Wide Web, or perhaps to infiltrate a project that Alex had never heard of. But somewhere along the way, Bartoy had made a mistake. Maybe he'd gotten careless and compromised his identity. Maybe he'd gotten greedy about the secrets that he was being paid to uncover. Or maybe Alan Blunt just hadn't liked him.

Whatever the reason, Bartoy had been burned. MI6 had dropped him and blacklisted him, and for the next fourteen years he had struggled to find work anywhere. And apparently he had developed this Dark-Age virus on the side.

Alex was beginning to understand why Smithers had advised him not to accept payment. It seemed that, once MI6 owned you, they could throw you away.

He retrieved the pages of Devon's autobiography from the floor. The back page was only half-written; he ripped off the empty part, slipped a small pencil out of his pocket, and scribbled something down. He knew Wolf would come by, sooner or later; he wanted to prepare a means of communication.

Sure enough, hardly ten minutes had passed when he heard familiar footsteps at the end of the corridor. A moment later, Wolf was there. He acted as though he was doing a routine patrol, walking casually and tossing his baton in his hand. As he passed Alex's cell, the baton clattered to the floor.

"Smooth," Alex sneered.

"Shut your mouth, Holt," Wolf barked.

He leaned over to pick up the fallen baton, and his fingers scraped up the folded paper beneath it. Moments later, he was gone.

ARARAR

The warden watched with an odd expression as the ballerina turned in a circle. She stood on the very tip of her toe, balanced and delicate, her arms extended above her. It was frightening, to imagine how long she'd been frozen in such a position—her right toe brushing her knee, her left toe rotating on the plain white pedestal. No ordinary person could maintain balance for so long.

The warden touched her face unconsciously. The tinkling music was moving slower, slower—she could hear the gears grinding to a halt—

"Warden!"

Immediately, the warden's hand lashed out and slammed the music box shut. Two guards had burst into the room, one slightly breathless. The warden's face felt hot.

"Report," she said crisply, standing up.

"I—we should've knocked, warden, but we've caught him."

"Caught who?"

"On the docks, in Grimsby—he was preparing to set out with a private speedboat and three inflatable rafts—"

"Caught who?" the warden repeated, with calm steel.

"We don't know who, Warden. Just an old fisherman. But he's already confessed. He was planning to transport prisoners off of the island. Said he was promised an obscene amount of money if he helped the rich prisoners escape."

The warden allowed herself a small moment of triumph. Just a flicker. Then she cleared her throat.

"You've questioned him?"

"Aye, warden. He says he had a contact inside the prison."

The warden's jaw tightened. "Impossible. We've questioned everyone—"

"Then we'll have to question him," the guard said, slightly apologetically. "The fisherman, I mean. He'll give us his contact, as long as we apply the—ah—the proper coercive forces."

"Do it," the warden said, and both guards disappeared.

She looked down at the music box on her desk. Inside was an old locket, a shiv made of wax, and Jacob Holt's allergy bracelet. It was her place to confiscate, and to forget.

She had slammed it so hard that a small crack had appeared in the lid.

ARARAR

"What the—"

Reid sat up in bed and watched, eyes narrowed, as three guards jogged down the corridor. They were moving toward their destination like soldiers on the brink of victory, but one of them, the same dark-haired guard who had kicked Alex down the stone staircase, skidded to a stop outside Alex's cell. His face was shining with sweat.

"We've got your friend, Holt."

Alex looked coolly at him. "Sorry?"

"The fisherman, whoever he was. He was aiming to set you lot free, and we caught him before he even set sail. We caught him, and you're next."

"What fisherman?" Alex said, blinking. "I've told you, I don't know anything about Thin Lizzy."

"Thin Lizzy!" crowed the guard, with malicious delight. "Thin Lizzy is finished."

The meaning of his statement took a few moments to sink in. Then the guards were gone, and Reid had sworn loudly, and the D block had dissolved into anarchy. The silence policy was forgotten. Half of the convicts shouted angrily, and the other half flung food and trash and dirty water across the corridor, an expression of rage. Alex could hear the thud of fists against metal.

"Relax," Reid was shouting. "Just calm down. Maybe it's a bluff."

A few of the others might have heard him, but they weren't convinced. Not at all.

They'd been at it for five minutes when the warden strode down the corridor. There was none of the natural softness in her pretty face—rather, it was blazing with triumph, and she didn't look pretty at all.

"The next person who speaks will have the opportunity to make all the noise they want," she said clearly. "In solitary."

A hush fell across those nearest her, but one con hadn't gotten the message. He swore loudly, the same ugly word again and again. The warden smiled grimly.

"Guards, if you please."

The cell was unlocked, and the baton was swung, and the boy was dragged down the hallway spitting and struggling. There was a general sense that this wasn't the ordinary solitary visit—rather than being just thrown into the cell, this boy would be tortured as Alex and Jess and countless others had been.

"Next?" the warden said, sweetly.

Midnight silence stifled the D block; Alex wondered if the other cons were even breathing. The warden lingered for a moment outside of Alex's cell and caught his eye. It was a direct address, a silent challenge.

Then she turned and departed the way she'd come.

Alex heard Reid laugh once, a cynical laugh. Then there was silence again, and the hissing sprang up louder than he'd ever heard it. Alex sighed and pressed two fingers against his eyelids. Where was the sound coming from? It didn't seem important, but he knew even the smallest details could prove invaluable. What details in the prison had Alex overlooked? The patch of water on the floor in Reid's cell. The plastic cup on the floor. The hissing, always in the dark—and it truly sounded like snakes in the pipes—

Alex froze.

The pipes. Of course.

He looked up and down the dark corridor, checking for guards. Then he used the plastic cup at the sink to scoop the water out of the toilet. He dumped most of the water into the sink, a few droplets sprinkling the ground.

Then he lowered his ear and listened.

"—If he's Thin Lizzy, he's not doing a damn thing," Reid was whispering urgently.

"Bloody hell."

"This isn't bloody happening."

The whispers were dry, buried in hollow echoes, but Alex was able to make out the words. He leaned closer. It sounded as though he was hearing the three or four convicts whose cells were nearest his. The inmates had scooped the water from their toilet bowls, in order to use the pipes between cells as channels of communication. The hissing sound from Alex's first night had been the rest of the cons in D block, whispering about him.

It was ingenious. Alex wished he had figured it out sooner.

"The security's tighter than I ever seen it," Reid was hissing—and he sounded more worried than Alex would have expected. "Even if that fisherman was only a decoy—that's it. Even fucking Superman wouldn't be able to break in and set us free tonight."

"Hey, ain't you supposed to be lookin' on the bright side, Reid?"

"Yeah—you're the one who explained the code name and everything."

Reid sighed, barely audible. "I taught you the song, and I helped spread the word about Thin Lizzy. Doesn't mean I have any inside information. Devon's the one who told me, and he heard it from somebody else." A disdainful snort. "Right before he and Craig landed themselves in solitary."

"Man, if this doesn't go down—"

"I've been waiting for Thin Lizzy for three bloody months."

"—There'll be a fucking riot."

Reid sighed again. "Listen." His whisper was urgent. "Don't lose it. Maybe the inside man's already here. Maybe he's just somewhere we've been trying not to look."

"Like where? The bottom of the fucking ocean?"

Reid whispered something in response, his words impatient, but Alex wasn't listening. He had sat up straight, his mind moving very fast. The bars and the uniform and the concrete around him had suddenly become a movie set. He could see right through it.

_Right before he and Craig landed themselves in solitary . . . _

_Somewhere we've been trying not to look . . . _

Alex knew where the flash drive was. For the better part of the day, he had been five feet away from it.

ARARAR

"I want to go home," Jack said dully.

Agent Roxbury smirked. "Have a good night, Miss Starbright."

The door slammed shut behind him.

ARARAR

Even before he became a spy, Alex knew the value of patience. He knew how to wait. But in this case, speed was crucial. Thin Lizzy could happen at any moment—and if the prison was turned upside down by a riot or a breakout, Alex would never be able to sneak his way to the flash drive.

He moved through the darkness for the second time that night—but this time, he was running. He flashed back to an experience he would've preferred to forget. An electric baton digging into his ribcage. A burlap sack plunging down over his head. And then—

One hundred paces straight from the dining hall. Two hundred and four paces left. Another left—a few steps, and a sudden right—

And there it was. A heavy wooden door, leading down a dark stone staircase. Alex used the warden's hairpin to pick the lock, quickly glanced over his shoulder, and then slipped down into the darkness. The cold made him shudder—or perhaps it was the familiar stale air, the hint of rust and sweat and blood.

The descent seemed to take a bit longer, he reflected dryly, now that he was walking instead of falling.

And then he was in the dark underground corridor. There was an empty cell on the right, and an occupied one on the left. Craig sat on the floor, unchained and very bored-looking. Before Alex could react, the heavyset con glanced up and stared straight through the bars at Alex.

"Hey—Holt! What the hell you doing down here?"

Alex's heart sank. Craig's face was dark, his gaze dripping venom. He was furious that another con, especially a "greener" like Alex, had managed to slip under the radar. Craig was going to sound the alarm.

Alex hesitated a split second. He could shut Craig's mouth by pretending to be Thin LIzzy's inside man, but then the warden would hear about it, and Alex would be thrown in for a second round of torture. He couldn't threaten Craig; the con was safely behind bars. He couldn't bribe him, either—Craig had nothing to gain.

Alex needed a story that no one in his right mind would believe.

"GUARDS!" Craig hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth. "GUARDS—"

"_Shh_,_"_ Alex hissed sharply, pressing a finger to his lips.

Craig blinked stupidly. "Wha—"

Alex lowered his voice. "How are you with secrets, Craig?"

"I—I'm brilliant at keeping secrets," Craig said, apparently forgetting that Alex knew him not only as a sloppy fighter, but also as the prison's most reliable snitch.

"Right." Alex lowered his voice dramatically. "Craig, I'm a spy on an undercover mission from an international organization."

"WHAT?" Craig stumbled to his feet, dropping the brownie that he had smuggled into his shirt. "You think I'm stupid, you little dickhead?"

"Once again," Alex sighed, "your words cut deep. But I'm working right now."

He watched calmly as Craig worked his little gray cells.

"Don't strain yourself," Alex muttered.

Craig blinked again. "If I cooperate, can you pull some ribbons with the government—"

"Some strings, Craig. Pull some strings."

"Yeah, that—can you do that, and bust me outta this hellhole?"

"No," Alex said.

"Can you get me out on bail?"

"I really doubt it."

A frustrated groan. "Can't you at least get me out early on good behavior?"

Alex pretended to think. "Well. The problem, Craig, is that usually requires good behavior."

Craig stared at him, struggling to land upon another bargain. "Can you—um—erm—can you—"

"Next time," Alex advised, "try stringing some words together. It's called a sentence. We'll pick up this negotiation later, once you've had time to consult the other ninety-nine percent of your brain. And maybe a dictionary."

He turned away, retrieving the hairpin from his pocket. But then, out of some twisted, reluctant loyalty toward the organization that had ruined his life, Alex glanced back and added crisply, "Interpol appreciates your efforts."

"Interpol?" Craig repeated, his eyes widening again, but Alex had turned away, toward the opposite cell.

It was the cell where he had been tortured, and the cell into which Devon had been thrown on his first night in prison. Alex slid the hairpin into the lock.

"What the hell you doing?" Craig repeated, his eyes wide. "You want to break _into _solitary?"

The lock was heavier than those of the cells upstairs. Alex kept trying.

The hairpin broke in half.

Alex swore under his breath. It was right there. On the ledge of the barred window, five feet above where Alex's wrists had been chained, there was the flash drive he'd been searching for. But he had no way to get to the other side of these bars.

He could ask Wolf for help, but communication had become difficult, and he wasn't sure how much freedom Wolf had anymore. He could also get himself thrown back into solitary, but then would come the more challenging obstacle of getting back out.

He started to turn around. And then something heavy slammed against the side of his head. It wasn't the most powerful blow, but it caught Alex off-guard; he was sent reeling against the steel bars, face first. He grabbed the bars, picked himself up, and turned to face his attacker.

It was Devon.

The boy's face looked paler and gaunter than Alex had ever seen it, and he was holding a shiv—in this case, a jagged piece of glass with a scrap of fabric wrapped around one end.

"It's too bad, Jake," Devon said, and he sounded sincere. "I was really beginning to like you."

**AN-YAY! I know I've been amazed before, but seriously, if you just made it to the end of this chapter, YAY! Christmas cookies for everyone! I've been baking them all day (for a homeless shelter, but I have some to spare). Peanut butter, ginger, or sugar cookies? Or maybe the classic--chocolate chip, straight out of the oven, warm and melty. :D **

**Thank you for reading! Now comes the part where I beg for reviews. PLEASE push that little button and drop me a line--I would love some feedback on this chapter. Also, there were probably plenty of typos...I want to post this chapter right now, but I haven't revised as much as I'd like to. Let me know of any mistakes, and I'll fix them right away!**

**Thank you so much to all the lovely people who reviewed chapter ten: Nylah, AC a Reader, Carus, Taigh, Emmy-loo, PleiadesWolfe, FaeFolk, Lissy, Erurawien, skabs, Esmenet, whatever95, Drayconette, Ambrele, DobbyGrl, The Shang Kudarung, The Feral Candy Cane, TouchingDarkness, sheluby94dreamer, Lady Zarobiti, Jusmine, aimael, hope12, SheWeapon1, keatlin, sybar, and jenny. An extra batch of cookies for you! :D**

**Oh, Esmenet--I think I forgot to mention in the PM. It's a music convention, for band and orchestra members in our honorary frat/sorority. I've been planning it all year. (sigh) It's fun. And time-consuming. And fun.  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Quote of the day: "Temperatures will slowly warm to the upper teens to lower 20s by next weekend."**

**~The weatherpeople. That's in Fahrenheit, by the way. And I'm seriously considering moving to the California. Or Mercury. Or somewhere else sunny and warm.**

**Anyway, here's a nice long chapter to tide you over for awhile!**

**Disclaimer: Eh, whatever. **

"Devon," Alex said blankly, "what the hell are you doing?"

Devon stepped forward, tightening his grip on the glass knife. "At the moment, I'm trying to choose between three arteries that will cause you to bleed out in less than five minutes."

Alex backed away cautiously. The situation wasn't good for his cover—in fact, his cover was being chipped away with each passing second—but he still had a role to play. "You're psychotic," he said.

"Don't play dumb, _Jake,_" Devon said scathingly.

"I'm not playing. I just—I thought we'd found some common ground. Definitely wouldn't have guessed you'd be the first guy to shank me."

"It's not personal."

"Right." Alex laughed darkly. "Except for the fact that you're threatening to stick a knife in me."

Devon hesitated, but then his eyes hardened. "Drop the act. I know who you are, and I know who you work for. My father warned me. And you—" He brandished the knife. "—You can stop insulting my intelligence with your pathetic lies."

And that was it. Alex could sense the conviction behind Devon's words, as tangible as the grime between the cracks and the dried blood on the walls. No matter what Alex said, Devon would never trust Jacob Holt again. He had probably never trusted him to begin with.

Luckily, Alex had a plan B.

"Five arteries," he said, stepping forward.

Devon blinked, momentarily thrown. "What?"

"There are five arteries that bleed out in less than five minutes. Want me to show you?"

And before Devon could speak, Alex lashed out and grabbed Devon's knife hand. The boy tried to slash at Alex, pure primal instinct, but Alex kept control and steered the knife away. Then he twisted Devon's knife arm and trapped it beneath his own. He needed Devon to loosen his grip, just a little—

Then Alex felt a sharp, stinging pain. A knife had slashed his shoulder and down his back. The graze wasn't deep, but Alex instinctively backed away. Devon panted heavily, his face pale and his cheeks gaunt. In his right hand, he held the glass shiv; in his left, he held a small strip of wood with five steel razor blades attached with electrical tape.

Alex could feel warm blood soaking into his white shirt.

"I'm sorry," Devon said. His voice sounded flat and strangely calm.

"Don't worry about it," Alex said, just as calmly. "I've always said that fair fights are overrated."

"I'm afraid it won't be much of a fight," Devon said.

Alex looked Devon up and down, and then smirked. "I have to agree with you there, Dev."

Devon didn't miss the implication, nor did he appreciate it. With a snarl of rage, he threw the razor-edged shiv into Alex face, and then sprinted forward—an attack that Ian Rider had once called the prison yard rush. Alex shielded his eyes with both hands, letting the razor blade glance off. When he looked up again, Devon was coming. Right. At. Him.

Not for the first time, Ian flashed into Alex's memory.

"_Alex." He uncapped a red marker. "You think you can defend against an opponent with a knife?"_

"_Yes," Alex said honestly._

He and Ian had faced each other across a blue gym mat, Ian brandishing the marker, and by the end of the exercise, Alex had red marks across his stomach, his chest, and both his forearms.

"_There's no such thing as a fair knife fight, Alex. You disarm your opponent, or you lose. Simple as that." _

Alex had nodded, breathing hard, and Ian had taught him three steps to defend against a knife attack. These steps were only effective, Ian stressed, if Alex never had to think about them. The movements had to be instinctual, the same sort of muscle memory that trained a man to play Rachmaninov's Prelude on the piano or roundhouse-kick an assailant against the wall.

_Step one—increase the distance._

Alex darted sideways and backward, forcing Devon to change the direction of his momentum.

"Scared?" Devon taunted, reaching to strike a blow with his free hand.

_Two—control the knife hand._

Alex ignored the glancing blow and reached past, once again locking his grip on Devon's right wrist. This time, the boy didn't have another weapon to whip out of his back pocket.

_Three—improvise._

Alex swung Devon around and pushed him up against Craig's cell. He slammed Devon's wrist against the bars once, and the boy's grip loosened. He slammed him again, and the glass shiv fell to the stone floor. Craig stared at it, his eyes wide.

"You can keep it," Alex grunted, pulling Devon back around.

Craig gingerly kicked the shiv into the back corner of his cell. Then, after a second's thought, he wrapped it with a scrap of torn fabric and slipped it into his pocket.

"Let go of me," Devon grunted, twisting angrily.

Unarmed, the boy stood no chance. Alex released him, and Devon scrambled back against the bars of the opposite cell, his arms thrown wide. It was a last-ditch, desperate attempt to prevent Alex from finding the flash drive.

"Please," Devon panted. "Don't."

Alex stared at him for a long moment. Then he dropped his fists.

"The cell's locked," he pointed out.

With a groan, Devon lowered his own arms and sank down onto the cold stone. His arms shook uncontrollably—his dark eyes flashed, but he didn't dare meet Alex's gaze.

Alex understood perfectly. The bitter taste of defeat, coupled with the loss of tension and adrenaline. Alex couldn't help feeling slightly sorry for Devon—or at least, he couldn't help commiserating. But feelings weren't important. Information was.

He stepped forward. "Okay, Devon. Time for us to have a little chat."

ARARAR

Jack Starbright wasn't going to take it anymore.

She was rotting in a jail cell disguised as a poorly decorated bedroom. The past four days had felt like four years. And now, thanks to Smithers's visit, she knew—and had always known, secretly—that the other inhabitants of MI6's underground compound were being tortured. It was only a matter of time before they dropped the niceties and tied Jack to a chair.

But she wasn't going to let it happen. Damn the law, and damn the consequences. It was time to channel Alex's super-spydom and get the hell out.

Fifteen minutes later, when Jack was due to receive her breakfast, Walkman cracked the door and peeked inside.

"He's a pawn, right?" Jack said, tilting her head sideways.

Walkman raised his eyebrows. Jack was sitting at the broken table, squinting down at a wooden chessboard. Her face was flushed, her red hair disheveled; she wore the same jeans and green tank top he'd seen her wearing the night before.

"Pawn, right?" she prompted, holding up a chess piece. "Or is he a knight?"

Walkman blinked.

"A castle?" Jack amended.

"Ah—that's just a pawn." A bemused expression tugged at Walkman's lip. "Are you—playing chess against yourself?"

"At the moment, I'm just trying to set up the pieces," Jack said impatiently. She placed the pawn in the correct row and grabbed another piece of carved wood. "And this one's a horse, right?"

"A knight," Walkman hedged, taking a few steps toward her. "Where'd you find the chess set?"

"It was beneath the bookshelf," Jack said, setting down the knight on his square. "I figured a quick game against myself couldn't hurt."

"You'll lose," Walkman warned.

"Yeah, but I'll win, too."

Walkman knew the surveillance cameras were watching, but he couldn't restrain himself—his face broke into a grin. "You're mad."

"I'm bored," Jack corrected dryly. "Care to join me?"

Walkman hesitated. He looked down at the breakfast tray in his hands. "It's not a good idea, Jack. Protocol clearly stipulates that any prisoner held under suspicion of—"

Jack's green eyes met his brown ones. "So I'm officially a prisoner now?"

Walkman froze. Behind his face, she could see him cursing furiously and struggling to fix what he'd said. When he'd been squirming for a few seconds, Jack plucked him off the hook. "Screw protocol," she said airily. "For God's sake, Walkman. Let's just play a game."

He hesitated a moment longer, gripping the metal tray like a lifeline.

"You know how to play, don't you?" Jack added, watching Walkman's face. "I'm a little rusty, but I think I could tell you how the pieces move—"

Walkman sat down in the chair opposite Jack, and for some reason he thought he heard the clap of a trap springing shut. "Thanks, Jack, but I know how to play."

"We'll see about that," she said, grinning. "Now—I'm supposed to move one of these little guys, right?"

"The pawns. Yeah."

"Okay."

"I mean, technically you can move whatever piece you'd like."

"Pawn sounds good."

She touched one of the pawns, paused, then touched another and stroked its rounded head thoughtfully. Walkman swallowed, watching her smooth peach-colored skin against the wood.

"Hmm," Jack murmured, biting her lip.

Walkman cleared his throat gruffly. "It's the first move, Jack. You really can't go wrong."

She blinked, looking up at him. "Right."

She slid the pawn forward two spaces, and then leaned unconsciously forward, her red hair falling like a curtain past the flushed apples of her cheeks. Walkman suddenly wished the room had a window to crack open.

Jack smiled, and there was something coy in it. "Your move, Walkman."

ARARAR

"Why do you want me dead?" Alex said calmly.

He and Devon were circling slowly, their eyes locked. Craig watched hungrily through the bars of his cell, and a low American voice—Jess, probably—was muttering incoherently at the other end of the stone corridor.

"I don't," Devon said, breathing heavily. "I don't want you dead."

"Well, then." Alex stopped moving and folded his arms; Devon stopped, too, and nearly tripped over his own feet. "Allow me to rephrase. Why did you try to kill me?"

"I had to," Devon whispered. "I—my dad, he—"

"He learned that the authorities were closing on him, and he gave you instructions," Alex guessed, watching Devon's face closely. "He told you to get yourself thrown into Stony Creek, and to smuggle the virus inside. He knew this would be the only place the authorities couldn't touch."

"What virus?"

Alex laughed without humor. "And you claim I insulted _your _intelligence?"

Devon remained silent. Frowning, Alex searched for a new angle of interrogation, some method to delve into Devon's secrets—and his mind landed on the crinkled pages of Devon's creative autobiography. He arranged his face into a sneer.

"Listen, Dev, you don't have to protect Daddy. I know that your father hides things from you—his secrets, his past—and he can hardly hold a decent job. Does he really deserve your protection?"

"My dad knows how to hold a job," Devon countered angrily. "He was a computer repair technician for nearly two years."

"Wow," Alex smirked. "Next thing you know, he'll be working toward a promising career as a gas station attendant."

"My father," Devon hissed, "is brilliant."

Alex shrugged. "I'm sure he _was _brilliant, once upon a time. But when you drink more than you work—"

"Shut up," Devon said, very quietly.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it, Devon? Trust me, I know. My uncle lied to me, too. And he left me to fend for myself. But at least he always came back home—"

"SHUT UP!" Devon shouted, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Well, then, don't let me do all the talking."

"My father is a good man. It's not his fault he can't hold a job."

"Whose fault is it, then?"

Devon blinked, startled. The glint of arrogance had vanished from Alex's face as quickly as it had appeared, to be replaced by a quiet patience. Devon chewed on his lower lip and studied the ground.

"You know, don't you?" Alex said quietly.

Devon's face was paper-white. "I don't know anything."

"You know," Alex said firmly, "that your father worked for MI6."

Devon looked up, wincing, and Alex's suspicions were confirmed. There was no surprise in Devon's eyes, no confusion—only fear, defiance, and helplessness.

"You played dumb in your autobiography," Alex added matter-of-factly.

"You read that bloody thing?" Devon glared, and then collapsed into a sigh. "I didn't want to blow my dad's cover, so I wrote as if I didn't know. Really, Dad told me the truth a few years ago, right before he split for France and left me alone in London." Then Devon straightened his shoulders. "But it doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter?" Alex said slowly.

"Nothing matters. If you're going to kill me, do it now and spare me the monologue."

Alex blinked. _This _was new.

"Devon," he said, slightly bemused, "you attacked me two knives to none. If you're looking for the moral high ground, I think your compass is broken."

Devon sighed. "I did what was necessary to try and protect my family. Now you'll do what's necessary to protect the corrupt government and its bloody secrets. So why don't you just get on with it?"

Alex frowned. "I'm here to protect innocent people. Let's face it—as interesting as the Dark Ages were, we don't need to experience them firsthand."

For a split second, Devon's eyes flickered with confusion. Then he shook his head. "All I know is that I don't trust the people you work for—whoever the hell they are."

"He works for Interpol," Craig chimed in, leaning against the bars of his cell for a better look.

Alex rubbed his forehead. "Very helpful, Craig."

He took Devon by the arm and pulled him out of earshot of Craig's cell.

"Listen, Devon," he said, very quietly. "I'm going to tell you the truth, on the off-chance that your painful cluelessness _isn't _an act. Your father developed a devastating virus and loaded it onto a flash drive. My job is to find the flash drive before the virus reaches a computer mainframe and causes serious damage."

"Damage?" Devon echoed weakly. "What damage?"

"Oh, just the collapse of modern technology and the dawning of a new Dark Age. A cakewalk, really."

For a split second, Devon's eyes widened with real shock. "I don't believe you."

Alex sighed. "I don't have time for this. Maybe you know every detail of your father's plan—maybe you know nothing, and trust him just because he's your father. Either way, you're on the losing side."

Devon stared at Alex, and Alex looked steadily back. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Devon gave an answer that Alex hadn't expected.

"Maybe you're right, Jake—or whoever you are. Maybe I'm on the losing side." He met Alex's eyes, burning and clear. "But at least I'm on the right one."

ARARAR

Wolf had never enjoyed the whole stealth angle.

Could he do armed combat? Of course. Could he survive in the middle of nowhere, limping from a bullet wound and lugging a parachute and a C8 assault rifle? Sure. He had even grown to enjoy sudden bursts of violence—assuming, of course, that he was evenly matched or severely outnumbered by enemy troops, and assuming that those enemy troops would sooner fight to the death than cry like little girls.

No, Wolf didn't mind violence.

But subtlety wasn't his strong suit—and besides, he hadn't joined the SAS to learn how to play make-believe with a whiny teenager. Unfortunately, MI6 always seemed to request him. They cited a "mutual trust" between Wolf and Cub—meaning that the pair had so far managed to work together without either one of them being killed, tortured, or maimed.

No, wait. Scratch torture off that list.

But perhaps it wasn't fair to reduce Cub to a whiny teenager. In fact, Wolf admitted reluctantly, the kid wasn't whiny at all. He was infuriatingly sarcastic—but if the caustic comments weren't nearly always directed at him, Wolf might've cracked a smile. Cub was good, too—both good at his job, and a rare good person.

They might've been friends, if Cub had been a little older.

And if Wolf had been the type to have friends.

"Torres," the warden said crisply.

Wolf nodded coldly at her. The woman had just appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her hands clasped as though in prayer; moments later, she had crossed the staff lounge and disappeared into the pantry.

Wolf waited a few seconds, just to be safe. Then he took the stairs two at a time.

The warden's office was unlocked, and Wolf barreled inside without hesitation. A quick visual scan produced nothing of interest—a stack of unopened mail, a closed laptop, and a photograph of two children, a blonde boy and a ginger-haired girl.

Upon closer inspection, Wolf found a cracked music box. The warden had shoved it into her bottom drawer.

Wolf carefully opened the lid. Inside, a ballerina spun en pointe to the tinkling theme of Fur Elise. Wolf grunted in annoyance; music of the sort always bothered him, not because it was too pretty or too delicate, but because he hated listening to the gears winding down.

Cub's metal bracelet was at the bottom of the box. Wolf snatched it up; he was about to tuck it into his pocket when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Who's up there?" the warden shouted sharply; he heard her footsteps accelerate.

Frantic, Wolf fumbled for the folded paper Cub had slipped him. It contained only five words, scribbled inside a chain-linked circle that Cub had drawn himself—_Press the back, _and _Anton Bartoy._

Wolf stabbed the back of the allergy tag. "Oy," he muttered, very quietly, "Check up on an Anton Bartoy."

The doorknob turned. "Whoever's in there—"

Wolf tossed the bracelet into the box, slammed the lid, and dumped the music box into the drawer. He had just kicked the drawer shut when the door swung open.

The warden stared at him, a teacup clutched in hand.

"Torres," she said, "what are you doing in my office?"

"I—erm—I thought I'd find you up here," Wolf said haltingly. "I wanted to ask you to pardon my behavior yesterday. I'll do better."

The warden frowned. "I left for a cup of tea barely a minute ago."

"Did you?" Wolf said vaguely.

"I walked right past you," the warden pressed.

"I don't remember—"

"You nodded at me," the warden snapped.

"I might've just been nodding off," Wolf suggested. "Haven't gotten much sleep lately."

The warden stared at him for a long moment. Wolf stared back, unflinching, even as a trickle of cold sweat ran down the back of his neck. Her blue eyes were sharp, like knives, like X-rays—and they were fixed so resolutely on him that it was difficult to think straight. How did Cub _do _this kind of thing all the time?

Finally, the warden sighed.

"Get out."

Wolf didn't need to be told twice. He strode around the desk and descended the steps two-at-a-time. He had at least managed to communicate the message, but he hadn't swiped the bracelet.

_Could've just tucked it in your pocket, instead of throwing it back into the box, _a small voice reminded Wolf.

_Shut up, _he ordered the voice furiously.

Espionage just wasn't his game. Growing up, he'd always been the reigning champion of Battleship and Red Rover, and he'd even been halfway decent at Snakes and Ladders—but the spy game was more reminiscent of chess. An endless match of chess, with half the pieces missing.

And Wolf was still waiting for someone to teach him the rules.

ARARAR

"Check," Walkman said, smug and satisfied

Jack's face fell. "Really?"

"Um—yeah."

"Damn it." Jack knocked over her king and sighed in defeat. "I didn't expect to beat you, but—"

"Check," Walkman repeated quickly. "Not checkmate."

"There's a difference?"

"You still have a chance to get out of it," Walkman explained.

Jack raised an eyebrow and returned her gaze to the board. The game had been a slow one, with Jack pausing every turn to bite her lip and work through every possibility. She scanned the board, and then she smiled triumphantly.

"Got it."

She moved a pawn forward one space, blocking the path of Walkman's bishop.

"Very good," Walkman said, nodding approval. "I think you're learning."

Jack stared at him, and then laughed. "Patronizing much, Walkman?"

Immediately, the man's face flushed. "I just—I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, relax. Don't have an aneurysm." Jack's green eyes sparkled. "But don't underestimate me, either. I've learned a hell of a lot. In fact, I think I've learned enough to beat you."

Now it was Walkman's turn to laugh. "Really_._"

"Wanna bet on it?" Jack challenged.

Walkman hesitated. He knew he shouldn't wager anything, but the game had been going well, and the chemistry crackling between them was slightly—distracting.

_Just building up the trust, _he reminded himself sternly. _Getting her to confess._

"Okay," he relented. "A small wager. If I beat you, you'll have to answer one question truthfully—whatever I decide to ask. And if you beat me—"

"Oh, please." A smirk tugged at Jack's lips. "That's the best you can think up? This isn't a slumber party, Walkman. We're not playing truth or dare."

"What, then?" Walkman countered defensively.

Jack considered for a long moment. Then she looked up with a delicious smile.

"If I beat you," she said, "you have to bring me dessert. Anything I want. Chocolate strawberry truffle, or crème brulee with perfectly-carmelized sugar, or an ice cream sundae with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top—"

"Isn't it a little early for that?" Walkman asked hesitantly.

Jack's eyes sparkled. "It's never too early for chocolate."

"Fair enough."

"And if you beat me—" Jack hesitated, catching his eye. "There's not really much I can give you, considering the fact that I've been locked in here with no money and none of my own possessions. But we could make it a surprise."

"A surprise."

"You'll like it," she promised.

Walkman swallowed. This was spiraling out of control.

"We have a wager," he managed.

_Just building up the trust, _he thought fiercely. _Just building—_

"I think it's your turn," Jack said.

"Right."

Walkman studied the board, ignoring the uncomfortable heat creeping up his neck. Then he slid his rook forward three spaces, arranging a trap for Jack's queen.

Smoothly, without hesitation, Jack slid her bishop clear across the board. Walkman hadn't even noticed the opening.

"Check," Jack said.

Walkman blinked.

"You still have a chance to get out of it," Jack added sweetly.

Across the table, Walkman forced a laugh. He couldn't believe how quickly the game had twisted out of his grasp, and, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how to reel it back in.

ARARAR

"You're not serious," Alex said flatly.

It was morning at Stony Creek—through the bars, the sun was just touching the horizon. And, in the underground stone corridor, Devon was still trying to convince Alex that his father was the victim.

"Let me get this straight," Alex said, dripping sarcasm. "MI6 was mean to your dad, and that makes it okay to destroy all of modern technology."

"Jake, listen to what you're saying," Devon pleaded in earnest. "Destroy technology? A new Dark Age? How the hell is that even _possible_?"

"I don't know," Alex shrugged—and, for the first time, he felt a flicker of doubt. "I'm not a computer expert."

"No. You're just a brainwashed spy."

Alex locked eyes with Devon. "At the moment, I'm a brainwashed, dangerous, and very impatient spy."

Devon growled in frustration. "Would you just _listen _to me? In 1986, MI6 sent my dad into CERN on a long-term mission. His job was to gather information and develop spyware and malware, so that MI6 would have control before the web even became operational."

"And he was sacked from CERN because he got careless with the spyware?" Alex said slowly.

"No." Devon shook his head fiercely. "He never got caught until MI6 leaked his secret activities to CERN's director."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because—" Devon winced at the dangerous glint in Alex's eye. "Because my dad wanted to quit. My mom was pregnant with me, and Dad wanted to change careers and support his family. MI6 wasn't happy. They made sure that, if Dad wasn't going to work for them, his skills wouldn't be applied anywhere else, either. They tried to blackmail him. And when that didn't work, they burned him. Blacklisted him."

"That sounds like MI6," Alex muttered, rubbing his forehead.

"A couple years ago," Devon continued doggedly, "Dad started to develop another virus."

"The flash drive," Alex muttered, glancing into the locked cell where the drive was hidden.

Devon nodded. "The flash drive. But it won't cause a—a Dark Age, or whatever. It's just meant to erase Dad's name from the MI6 database. He wants to clear his past and start over. For both of us."

Alex stared at him. "He just wants to push the reset button?"

"Basically."

"If your dad's mission is so small-scale, why'd MI6 send me here?"

Devon shifted uncomfortably. "Well—there's a slight chance that the virus will corrupt the entire MI6 mainframe and destroy all of their security files in the process."

Alex nodded slowly.

"A _slight_ chance," Devon repeated hastily.

"So I'm not protecting the world," Alex said quietly. "I'm protecting MI6."

Devon didn't answer. Alex rubbed his forehead again and looked out the ceiling windows. Through the bars, the sky was a pale, dying violet. Soon the PA system would call the inmates to breakfast, and the guards would gloat over the failure of Thin Lizzy, and Wolf would ask why Alex hadn't found the bloody flash drive yet.

"Devon," Alex said quietly, "I have to do my job."

The pale boy sighed. "I figured. I figured you'd say that, Jake. But just do me one favor."

"What's that?" Alex said wearily.

"When you take the flash drive into MI6, bring me with you."

"I can't," Alex said immediately—he almost hated himself. "My instructions were to grab the flash drive and get out."

"You have a break-out plan?" Devon pressed, his dark eyes searching Alex's.

Alex shrugged. "I'll figure that out as I go along."

Devon lowered his eyes. Behind his gaunt face, Alex could see a swirl of thoughts. The boy was struggling with something—some decision, some secret. Something he wasn't supposed to divulge.

"Just tell me," Alex said quietly.

The boy looked up—and he looked afraid.

"Two years ago, MI6 found out that my dad was engineering the virus. That's when Dad left me alone in London." Devon swallowed hard. "He knew that MI6 would come after him."

Alex nodded quietly. "Three months ago, they finally caught him."

"Right. But they didn't just throw him into prison." Devon raked a worried hand through his raven hair. "I don't know how much you know about MI6, but they're not the most—ethical. They have an underground compound of holding cells, and they used them to imprison, and interrogate, and—"

Alex stared at him. "What?"

"And torture," Devon whispered.

Alex's thoughts flew to Jack's messages. She was locked in a holding cell, and she'd been hearing screams—suddenly, Alex's heart pumped faster. Jack. If anything had happened to her—

"Please take me with you," Devon said, chilling and urgent. "I have to get in there. I have to rescue my dad."

Alex didn't say anything. He knew that he couldn't trust MI6—but he also knew that Devon had lied to him and would probably lie again. On the other hand, what if Devon was telling the truth? What if he was just as worried about his father as Alex was about Jack?

"Go back to your cell, Devon," he said finally. "Don't contact me again."

Devon sighed, the hope and energy draining from his face.

"Tonight," Alex continued, meeting Devon's eyes, "we're getting the hell out of here."

ARARAR

"Checkmate," Jack sang, sliding her queen into place.

Walkman stared, flabbergasted, at the chessboard that had so quickly spiraled out of control. Jack had swept the board, knocking out piece after piece, and just when Walkman had been trying to figure out some way to end things as a draw, she had cornered him.

"Well," he said finally, shaking his head.

"I think that means I win," Jack said brightly.

"It—yeah, it does." Walkman scratched his head. "Where'd you learn to play chess?"

"Ian Rider," Jack said flippantly, toppling his king with one finger.

Walkman shook his head again, and then grinned ruefully. "You won fair and square. What's your favorite dessert?"

Jack squinted at him. "Huh?"

"Our wager." Walkman grimaced. "I suppose I'll have to run to the bakery down the street—"

"No need," Jack said, standing up and stretching. "After such a long game, I'm in the mood for something—lighter."

She smiled coyly, and Walkman felt his face heat up again.

"I don't think—"

And suddenly Jack was right in front of him, and she had somehow entwined her hands into the fabric of his uniform and pulled him closer. Toward her, and toward the bed.

"Besides," she whispered, smooth and nervous and honey-sweet all at once, "weren't you curious about your surprise?"

"I—" Walkman's face moved from brick-red to beet-purple. "Jack—Miss Starbright—it's not appropriate for me to—"

"Close your eyes," she breathed.

He knew he shouldn't have. Walkman was a logical mind, and he had been trained not to let his guard down. But she was a young woman, slender and lightweight and slightly bubbly. The only danger was the mocking laughter of the men watching the camera feed—but, Walkman realized hazily, it was precisely eight a.m. The control room shifts were changing, and that meant that the agents were sipping coffee and exchanging good mornings. No one was watching the screen.

Jack closed her eyes, and Walkman closed his, and—

_CLANG!_

Jack swung as hard as she could. The breakfast tray slammed against the back of Walkman's head, and the blonde man grunted and slumped halfway onto Jack's bed. He didn't move.

"Surprise," Jack said, dropping the metal tray.

She shoved Walkman onto the bed and covered him with a blanket. He was much bigger than she was, but hopefully the agents in the control room wouldn't try too hard to discern the shape beneath the fluffy blankets.

"Sweet dreams."

Jack pocketed Walkman's keys. Then, after a brief hesitation, she picked up his gun. It was colder and heavier than she'd expected. She would never touch the trigger, but as far as the average MI6 agent knew, she would shoot him in the heart.

Should she carry the gun with her? Should she hide it in the ventilation shaft for safe-keeping? Or maybe it would be best to toss the damn thing in the toilet and forget about it.

_W.W.A.D., _Jack thought giddily. _What Would Alex Do._

Seconds later, in the black-and-white pixels of an unwatched screen, a young woman slipped carefully out into the underground corridor, a gun gripped tightly in hand.

**Yay! I think this was the longest chapter yet...maybe TOO long, but if you made it to the end, that's a good sign. (grin) Of course, after such a long chapter, I'm completely, helplessly adrift without your feedback....did it make sense? At all? Reviews are like chocolate and classical music and mega-boost smoothies...they make me think and write and update fasterrrr! :D**

**Thank you so much to Floraflower, sheluby94dreamer, Taigh, Erurawien, Drayconette, Wolfmonster, Lady Zarobiti, Nyxelestia, Lal Mirch, whatever95, beckysue904, TouchingDarkness, The Shang Kudarung, sybar, SakuraCa, keatlin, aimael, Esmenet, HaydenBlossom, Nylah, AC a Reader, PleiadesWolfe, Jusmine, Emmy-loo, sockpuppet82, XsuicideXkittyX, verbalchemist, Shadow-wolf78, DobbyGrl, Carus, The Feral Candy Cane, Entrancing, jesusfreak100percent, Julia, SheWeapon1, SteadyEddy, A Bibliophile, darkmoon999, and sherry. You're all amazing, and I'm hoping to respond to everyone individually soon, but for now I'll post this chapter...I'm afraid if I make you wait any longer for an update, I won't live quite long enough to post it x_X **

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